A Willing Victim (22 page)

‘School?’

‘That Foundation place.’

‘The Foundation’s not really a school. At least, not for children. I suppose you’d call it a religious centre, really.’

‘You mean some sort of church thing?’

‘Not exactly. More … spiritual. Esoteric.’

Mrs Curtin looked at him blankly. ‘Well, I don’t know anything
about that sort of thing. Why would Billy be in a place like that?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Ballard, ‘but I’d like you to have a look at a photograph and tell me if you recognise the person.’ He slid the picture of Mary/Ananda onto the table.

‘That’s the woman who took Billy!’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Yes, it’s unmistakable. But …’ Mrs Curtin looked from Ballard to the policewoman and back again, confused. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’m afraid,’ said Ballard, ‘that I can’t tell you that at present because it’s something to do with another case. We’re looking for this lady at the moment. You said she came for Billy sometime during the summer of 1945 … that’s right, isn’t it? Can you be more precise?’

‘Well …’ Mrs Curtin’s face screwed up with the effort of recollection. ‘I do know it was sometime around the date of the Japanese surrender, because there was a holiday announced and Ernie hadn’t gone to work and there’d been a big bonfire and what not … I think it must have been couple of days after that.’

‘So, the seventeenth or eighteenth of August.’

‘Thereabouts, yes. Not before, because I remember Rosemary saying it was a pity Billy was too young to enjoy the fireworks. It was very hot, and when I went over to Rosemary’s, she and Billy were in the garden and she was lifting him up to see the hens and making clucking noises. Funny, the things that stick in your mind, isn’t it?’

‘You said Billy was born a few days before Christmas?’

‘That’s right. Twenty-first of December, it was. Rosemary’d always come round to me and talk about him, every year, and end up crying … I was the only one she could talk to. I did feel sorry for her, because it broke her heart, having to give him away … I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but her Bert was a difficult sort of man. Always falling out with people, so if you were
his friend it was hard to go on being friends with them because he’d think that was disloyal … And of course when he found out about Billy, that was Rosemary being disloyal and he didn’t want me and Ernie even to speak to her. I said, “I’m not having that, she’s my sister no matter what she’s done”, but he wanted us to take sides. He was very difficult all round really, but Rosemary stuck to him. I never thought he deserved it, but then again, she didn’t have anywhere else to go …’

‘What was Billy’s full name, Mrs Curtin?’

‘William Thomas Aylett.’

‘You mentioned a copy of the birth certificate – was that in your keeping, or your sister’s?’

‘Rosemary’s. She had it in her handbag when she left … I know because she showed me. We gave the original certificate to Mrs Carroll.’

‘And you’re positive that this’ – Ballard tapped the photograph – ‘is Mrs Carroll, are you?’

Muriel Curtin nodded. ‘I’d know her anywhere. You don’t see many people as good-looking as that. There is something else, though – perhaps I should have said before, but I didn’t see why it mattered … Well, it probably doesn’t matter, and you’ll probably think I’m silly, but …’ She looked at him doubtfully, seeking permission to continue.

‘I don’t think you’re silly at all,’ said Ballard firmly. ‘Tell me.’

‘Well, it was just something I thought at the time. I didn’t say anything to Rosemary, and she didn’t mention it, so then I thought, well, I’m imagining it. But each time we saw Mrs Carroll – that was three times, as far as I remember, three different occasions – I thought she looked as if she was in the early stages of pregnancy. Very early, because you couldn’t tell it from her shape, but she had a sort of glow about her, that women sometimes get. But then I thought, why would she tell us she couldn’t have children and go to all the bother of adopting one if she was
having one of her own? That made no sense at all, so I decided I must have imagined it, but I remember it was quite a strong impression at the time, and I wouldn’t say I was a fanciful person, not at all. Do you think it could be Billy, Inspector, at that funny place?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ballard, grimly, ‘but I’m going to do my best to find out.’

‘Because if it is,’ Muriel Curtin’s face was creased with anxiety, ‘well, I’m – I mean, we are – his next of kin, aren’t we? And I can’t just
leave
him, not after … You don’t think he had anything to do with Rosemary’s death, do you? I don’t mean killing her, but … It’s probably talking out of turn, but you said that you were looking for Mrs Carroll, so if she’s a … a criminal of some sort … then … well, presumably they’re looking after him at this place, but …’

Ballard reached across the table and patted her hand. ‘I do understand, Mrs Curtin. I shall be looking into it, and we will keep you informed, I promise you.’

‘We thought we’d done the right thing when he was a baby, but …’ She shook her head, tight-lipped. ‘I couldn’t imagine – well, I didn’t want to imagine – what Rosemary must have been feeling all those years, but when I saw that room … I just want to do the right thing by him, that’s all. Him
and
Rosemary.’

After making a note to ask Parsons first thing tomorrow about getting hold of a copy of Billy’s birth certificate and finding out whether the US army had any record of a serviceman called Carroll who’d married an Englishwoman in 1945, Ballard drove slowly and thoughtfully out of Ipswich and home through the dark, narrow lanes.

Mary Milburn was a loose cannon, all right, but somehow he didn’t think that she’d acted on a mere whim in taking Billy from Mrs Aylett. If what had happened with Dr Slater was anything to go by, the woman tended to have a purpose to her actions, no matter how illogical or bizarre it might seem to others. But what that purpose might have been, he couldn’t imagine. What if Lloyd were the writer of Rosemary Aylett’s anonymous letter? If he was, then he’d somehow managed to discover the boy Michael’s true origins.

It was possible, Ballard supposed, that Mary might have told Lloyd that she’d taken Billy and brought him to the Foundation under the name of Michael, but given her apparent disinclination for telling the truth that too seemed unlikely. Besides, the last thing she’d want was for Michael to be revealed as just an ordinary kid. Presumably Roth had spotted Michael’s ‘specialness’ early on, and that, in turn, had conferred status on her.
Could she, perhaps, have started off by colluding in the Michael mythology, and ended up actually believing it? Ballard supposed that stranger things must have happened, although he couldn’t, at that moment – driving past farmyard walls in dripping, dung-scented darkness – think of any.

They hadn’t asked the students at the Foundation about Michael – no reason to – but Ballard suspected that if they had, their questions would have been met, despite all the bright intensity, with guarded responses. In a place where the very air was thick with significance, Michael’s divinity would, Ballard was sure, be the most significant thing of all: proof to the students that they were following the true path and had access to something extra special that was denied to others by their inferiority or ignorance. That they considered themselves superior, he had no doubt – with Michael, of course, the most superior of all. People have killed to preserve their status before now, thought Ballard, and Mary/Ananda’s status depended on Michael’s …

If Lloyd’s manuscript
had
existed, then it might have contained information blowing the whistle on the pair of them. Mary/ Ananda might have been able to get to London to kill him, and removed and destroyed the manuscript in order to keep it quiet, and she might have killed Rosemary Aylett, too, if she’d encountered her. Or Lloyd could have told Mary/Ananda that he’d sent the letter and they could expect a visit, couldn’t he? Roth would have had good reason to want the manuscript suppressed, too – and he’d hardly have welcomed Rosemary … Did he have so much power over his students that they would kill in order to protect him and the Foundation? It was hard to imagine any one of that almost absurdly genteel bunch murdering somebody, but that didn’t make it impossible. If only we could find the bloody woman, he thought, crunching the gears as he turned off the village’s main road and into the lane that led to his house.

*

‘You didn’t tell me Inspector Stratton was here.’ Pauline, up to her elbows in washing-up, was clattering the dishes with unnecessary violence. She’d been spiky all through supper, monosyllabic and challenging by turns. Now, Katy was in bed and Ballard, cloth in hand, was waiting to dry the supper things, feeling – as he had all evening – waves of something a lot like hostility and doing his best to ignore them. Silence, he’d decided, was the best policy. All his attempts at conversation, however banal, had so far placed him immediately and absolutely in the wrong. Now, Pauline’s tone was positively accusing, as if he’d deliberately concealed something from her – which, of course, he had, although he wasn’t really sure why he’d done it.

‘I didn’t think you’d be all that interested.’

‘Well, I am. He’s been asking questions at the Foundation, hasn’t he? About that man who was killed in London.’

‘Heavens.’ Ballard kept his tone light. ‘News does travel fast.’

‘I read about the man in the paper, and I do occasionally talk to people – the ones who’ll speak to me, anyway. And then there was that woman killed in the wood …’

‘Yes, but that’s nothing to do with Stratton’s inquiry,’ said Ballard, ‘at least, not at the moment.’

‘Well, it’s all over the village, anyway. And about the one who’s disappeared and had her picture in all the papers. Not that anyone’s thought to ask me about it, of course.’

Ballard remembered what Mary/Ananda had said about meeting Pauline out walking, but an obscure fear that he’d somehow give himself away made him say, ‘Why, did you know her?’

‘Yes.’ Pauline banged a plate onto the wooden drying rack. ‘As a matter of fact, I did.’

‘Oh?’

‘I met her at the Foundation.’

‘Did you? But …’ Ballard stopped himself. This definitely
wasn’t the time to contradict her. Instead, he asked, ‘What were you doing there?’

‘I went to a few talks. They do these introductory courses. Anyone who’s interested can go along.’

Vaguely recalling that he’d seen a notice to this effect in the village shop, Ballard said, ‘I didn’t know you’d done that.’

Another plate crashed into the rack. ‘Well, you didn’t ask.’

Deciding to let this go, Ballard said, ‘What did you think of it?’

‘It was interesting. They’re nice people. Kind. They’re not all posh types who sit about being self-indulgent, you know. They’re up at dawn, and they work really hard – cooking and cleaning and gardening. They’re even going to build a new wing themselves. And you can talk to them.’

Passing over the implication that she couldn’t talk to
him
, Ballard said, ‘What did you talk about?’

‘That’s not important.’

‘You’re making it sound as if it is.’

‘What I mean is, they don’t have any stupid ideas about me being the wife of a policeman and therefore the enemy.’

‘Unlike some of the people in the village, you mean.’

‘Yes. And it’s peaceful there. It’s …
good
.’

‘Inspector Stratton found it a bit creepy.’

‘He
would
.’

Ballard was taken aback by this. Pauline, so far as he knew, had always liked Stratton. ‘It was just his impression,’ he said. ‘And I have to say I thought they were a pretty rum lot myself.’

‘But you only talked to them about one thing, so you’re not really in a position to judge, are you?’ She narrowly missed his hand with the upended teapot, spraying him with water. ‘You’re just accusing them of things when you don’t know anything about them.’

‘No one’s accused them of
anything
, Pauline. Did you meet the leader, Mr Roth?’

‘Not yet, but they’re always talking about him. I suppose you
think he’s done something awful, too.’ A glass crashed against the edge of the sink, hard enough to break. Taking a step back, he said, ‘What’s all this about, anyway?’

‘We never talk properly any more. We can’t seem to have a conversation without it turning into a row.’

‘I wasn’t the one who started it.’

‘I didn’t say you did. Now you’re just being childish.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Ballard threw down his drying-up cloth. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Are you going to tell me what it’s about, or aren’t you?’

‘I’m trying to! The teacher at the Foundation said that we’re all – all of us – tangled up in our own little worlds, and we don’t communicate properly or honestly or anything, so we go round and round in circles and we don’t say anything that matters because we’re full of preconceived ideas, and that’s how wars start, people getting the wrong ideas about each other, and it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Are you saying I’ve got the wrong ideas about you?’

Pauline took her hands out of the soapy water and rested her arms on the edge of the sink. ‘It’s not just about you and your ideas, you know.’

‘Clearly a lot of it is, or you wouldn’t be angry with me.’

‘Oh …’ Pauline sighed, flicking her fingers at the soapsuds, the momentum of her anger gone. ‘I don’t know. It all seemed so clear when she said it, and when she was talking about the ideas we have about ourselves – what kind of people we are – but trying to explain it now …’ Pauline shook her head. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days—’

‘Since the lecture?’

‘Yes. And I thought that if I could just get rid of the wrong ideas and not worry or have negative thoughts, everything would be all right – because that makes sense, doesn’t it? It ought to work, and I really felt as if it would – I was sure. But then this
morning – after you left—’ She stopped, tugging at the pushed-up sleeve of her cardigan for her handkerchief and dabbing her eyes frantically.

‘What happened this morning?’