A Willing Victim (7 page)

The other good thing about being in the country was that, as now, he could occasionally nip home at lunchtime; such a luxury which would have been out of the question in London. Ballard lit a cigarette and stared past the angel to the church with its squat Norman tower and a fussy little porch – a Victorian addition, he thought – that was festooned with long rosters of the names of flower-arrangers, brass-polishers, linen-launderers and the like. To the left, he could see an ancient cottage, topped with dark, soggy thatch that sagged in the middle like an old and ill-bred horse, and beyond that, more fields. This morning, a piece of the past in the form of DI Stratton had telephoned, saying that he was coming to interview Ambrose Tynan. Good luck with that one, mate, thought Ballard. Tynan, he knew from experience, was the sort who insisted he didn’t want any special treatment and then raised merry hell if he didn’t get it. Ballard had arranged a car to collect Stratton from the station, and agreed to meet him for a drink in the George and Dragon in Lincott – conveniently, just a quarter of a mile from his house – in the evening.

He was looking forward to seeing Stratton again: not only had he learnt a hell of a lot from him in their years together at West End Central, but he also admired and liked the man. He’d always be grateful for his erstwhile superior’s discretion when he and Pauline, who’d been a policewoman, were courting, as well as for the constant unspoken support and the camaraderie. There was also the fact that – unlike some other senior officers he could think of – Stratton had never claimed credit at Ballard’s expense, never belittled and never patronised. A part of him couldn’t help wishing, though, that Stratton belonged to any other bit of his life but work. There was always a danger that the subject of Davies and Backhouse might come up, and, even after three years, it wasn’t something Ballard wanted to discuss. He’d done his best, since they’d moved here two years ago, to
pretend that none of it had happened. When he’d arrived, there’d been a fair few sly digs from fellow coppers who’d resented him as an incomer, but time and proximity having both accustomed and resigned them to his presence, such comments had all but ceased.

He hadn’t told Pauline about Stratton’s visit – why, he wasn’t entirely sure – only that he’d be working late. There was also the fact – nothing to do with Davies and Backhouse, this, but possibly part of the tangle of obscure reasons why he hadn’t mentioned it – that, having passed his fortieth birthday and feeling, for the first time in his life, that his personal fulcrum had tipped over into middle age, the promise of a nostalgia session with Stratton definitely added to the sensation that he was somehow passing into his own past. He’d had his strongest impression of it yet the previous evening when he was washing up the dinner plates for Pauline and suddenly recalled his father standing at the sink in their Holloway home, holding up a plate or colander or something and saying, ‘I wonder how many times I’ve washed this up?’ Then, looking down at his hands and arms with the shirtsleeves turned back twice and folded precisely, in exactly the same way as Dad had done, he’d suddenly thought: is this all there is?

Thinking about this, another memory surfaced: of his father, six months before his death last year at the age of sixty-six, making his wheezy way along the pavement, stopping to hang onto lamp-posts while he recovered his breath. He hadn’t lived long after his retirement. His mother was like most of the older women in the street – be-cardiganned, with National Health teeth and spectacles (for all he knew, some of them had wigs, as well), living on, sharing the house with her also-widowed sister. As far as he could see, the pair of them spent their time matching privations and ailments while poor Dad, in the cemetery, crumbled slowly away to dust.

Ballard had read somewhere that the death of a man’s father
broadened his horizons and emboldened him, but in his case, it had been simply unnerving. All he could think was: you’re next in line, chum.

This miserable and isolating train of thought was abruptly derailed when he caught sight of a shapely thigh with a hint of stocking-top coming over the stile at the end of the graveyard. The rest of the woman lived up to his first glimpse. Even from a distance he could see that she had a strikingly pretty – no, beautiful – face and a cloud of dark brown curls, and that the outdoor clothes she wore could not disguise her slender curves. Seeing him, she made no move to cover her leg or clamber down, but straddled the stile in a deliberate pose that reminded him of an exceptionally saucy wartime propaganda photograph of a landgirl, and gave him a cheerful wave.

‘Fancy giving me a hand?’ she shouted. ‘I seem to be stuck!’

Instantly galvanised into action, Ballard vaulted over the wall, forgetting – bloody hell! – that there was a patch of stinging nettles on the other side, and, leaping over the listing grave of Sir Thos. Harsnett, Bart, and His Relict, Anne, ran to help her. Close to, he saw that she was a few years older than he’d originally thought; twenty-nine or thirty, perhaps, but quite as much of a knockout. When he gave her his hand, she climbed down with graceful ease and it was only after a moment (at least, he hoped it was only a moment) when he was aware of nothing else but her shining dark eyes and the warm sexiness that seemed to envelop him, that he realised she hadn’t been stuck at all. His gallant dash struck him as absurd and he stood rooted to the spot, aware that he must look just as foolish as he felt, but still caught, tongue-tied, in the strongest force field of sexual magnetism he had ever experienced.

‘You must be Mr Ballard.’ The voice had a touch of huskiness to it – proper enough, but with a hint of mischief. ‘Sorry, I mean
Inspector
Ballard, don’t I?’

As she spoke, Ballard felt the discreet snap of something closing in on him; as if, he thought, she had him in her sights. ‘At your service.’ Oh, Christ, why had he said that? And how the hell did she know his name? ‘How . . . I mean, I am, but—’

‘Pauline’s told me all about you.’

‘Has she?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She flashed him a wide, happy smile. Her teeth were white and even. ‘I’m Ananda.’

‘Amanda?’

‘A-
nan
-da.’

‘That’s unusual.’

‘It means . . .’ She hesitated deliberately, as if waiting for a drum roll to finish, then said, triumphantly, ‘Bliss!’

Pauline can’t have told me about her, thought Ballard. I’d have remembered
that
. He felt pleased if his wife had made a friend, though. Although she’d never complained, he knew she found it lonely at times. Not only were the locals wary of incomers, but they seemed to feel – understandably, Ballard supposed – that the wife of a policeman, even if he wasn’t actually the village bobby, needed to be kept at arm’s length. ‘How did you meet Pauline?’ he asked.

‘The same way I met you – out walking.’

‘Do you live nearby?’

‘Just the other side of Lincott. The Old Rectory.’

‘The Foundation?’

‘That’s right.’ She giggled. ‘Don’t look so surprised! We do come out sometimes, you know.’

‘Yes . . . I . . .’ Feeling more foolish than ever, Ballard finished, ‘Of course you do.’

‘Bless you.’ Ananda regarded him for a moment, head on one side, then leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. He caught a whiff of perfumed soap as her curls brushed against his face, and then she was gone, nipping between the graves. At the gate
she turned and gave him a wave before disappearing down the road.

Ballard stared after her. After a moment, the tentative beginnings of an erection gave way to a jolted, fearful feeling, as though he’d narrowly escaped being run down by a bus. It took some minutes of standing quite still, followed by the soothing powers of another cigarette, for it to dispel so that he could think clearly once more.

In the two years he’d lived there Ballard had never, so far as he knew, actually met anyone from the Foundation for Spiritual Understanding, unless you counted Tynan, who had some connection with it, although he wasn’t quite clear what form it took. All Ballard knew about the Foundation was that it was home to a bunch of people who practised some sort of religion. The vicar, Reverend Sewell, had described it to him – with a disapproving sniff – as ‘esoteric’ and, when he’d looked the word up, he’d found that meant a philosophical doctrine that was ‘only for the initiated’ and ‘not generally intelligible’. In other words, secret and inward-looking. Certainly, the Foundation’s inhabitants could occasionally be glimpsed performing strange exercises in the grounds of the Old Rectory, but they never seemed to mix with the villagers. They were popular with the local shopkeepers because they placed large orders, and because they’d never been involved in any trouble Ballard had never had reason to step inside the gates.

The Old Rectory itself, however, had long had a reputation. A series of newspaper accounts of ghostly sightings in the 1930s, illustrated by suspiciously blurry photographs, had earned it the title of ‘the most haunted house in England’. Even now, in the summer, more than a few trippers would ask for directions to the place. Ballard had no idea whether or not they were admitted. He had the impression that most of them didn’t wish to be, but were content to gawp and take photographs from the road. Gothic,
looming, and reputed to be built on the site of an ancient nunnery, the house certainly looked the part but, unlike haunted houses in films, derelict with broken windows, banging shutters and cobwebs as thick as blankets, the Old Rectory – nowadays at least – was well maintained, with gleaming paint and a lovingly tended garden. Of course, there was no shortage of locals who, for the price of a pint, were willing to tell tales of tragic nuns, grey ladies and, for all he knew, headless horsemen as well.

Ballard opted for the longer way back to his house, where – without mentioning either Stratton or the strangely named Ananda – he said goodbye to Pauline before making his way back to the police station. He spent the afternoon investigating a series of thefts of farming implements, but all the time
she
lingered at the back of his mind, saucily perched on the stile, smiling and flashing those gorgeous legs.

The asphalt on the platform at Lincott station was cracked like the top of a cake. Alighting, Stratton was about to tap on the smeary window of the stationmaster’s office and ask for a taxi when, to his surprise, a driver sent by Ballard appeared and put himself at Stratton’s disposal for the rest of the day. The man’s slightly resentful air made Stratton wonder how easy it had been for Ballard – a true Londoner, unlike himself, not to mention being CID – to fit in with the local force. Reverting to the accent of his childhood, he said, ‘I appreciate that – I’m afraid I don’t know these parts at all.’

The man narrowed his eyes for a moment, suspecting mockery, and then, after looking up and down the empty platform, said, ‘You
not
from London, then?’

‘Not originally,’ said Stratton. ‘I grew up in Devon.’

The man nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘Sergeant Adlard, sir. If you’ll follow me . . .’ Picking up Stratton’s suitcase, he led the way to the car.

Adlard kept up a running commentary as they drove through the centre of Lincott village – self-contained and quiet, with cottages ranged around a green and along the road, and more, just visible, dotted about behind, a couple of shops, a church, a
school fenced with hooped iron railings, and a pub – and into open country. ‘Hardly ever see that, now,’ he said, gesturing at a field where a man was ploughing with two horses. ‘Most of the farmers round here got tractors. Beautiful, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ said Stratton. He’d loved his father’s patient, majestic Shire horses, Blackie and Dora; how they smelt at the end of the day, when they were hot, and how he’d stood on an upturned bucket to brush the dried sweat from their necks as they’d mumbled hay from the rack in the stable . . . ‘I grew up on a farm.’ Remembering, too, the generations of labourers literally worked into the ground, their tiny, damp cottages teeming with lousy children and the old people with goitres from years of drinking pond water, he added, ‘A bit of modernisation’s no bad thing, though.’

‘I suppose so. New council houses over there, look.’ Adlard gestured at a group of raw, box-like brick buildings, exposed in the middle of a flattened, barren field at the top of a hill, their gardens marked with concrete posts and chain-link fencing, one with an H-shaped television aerial protruding from its chimney. ‘Just gone up, they have. London must have been quite a change for you, sir – don’t mind my saying.’

‘Well, I’ve been there a while, now, but it did take a bit of getting used to at first.’

‘Not surprised. Only been there a couple of times myself. You can taste it in your mouth, can’t you? All sooty and gritty. And city folk think you must be stupid if you sound like you’re from a village.’

‘Oh, they’re all right when you get to know them.’

Adlard nodded, as if assenting to an unspoken request, then said, ‘You know what I’d miss if I lived in London? The stars. Just stand outside my back door and stare up at ’em, sometimes. You can’t imagine where they end, can you?’

‘I missed them, too. Mind you, it wasn’t till the blackout – you could see them sometimes, on a quiet night – that I realised it.’

After this, both men, discomfited by this sudden and inexplicably lyrical outburst, retreated into silence for the next few minutes, until a high brick wall came into view, and Adlard said, ‘Mr Tynan’s place.’ They drove past what felt like, but couldn’t actually have been, miles of wall, coming to a halt in front of impressively large wrought-iron gates flanked by posts on top of which animals of some unspecified heraldic species sat upright, as if begging for scraps.

Ambrose Tynan’s house, situated at the end of a longish drive, was a big, square affair which Stratton thought was probably Georgian. It had obviously been built for some long-ago country squire with the dual aim of getting one over on the neighbours and putting the peasantry in their place. If his own reaction was anything to go by, Stratton reflected, then as far as the second bit was concerned, the bloke had definitely succeeded. Standing beneath the giant portico, he felt common as muck and about six inches high.