A Woman's Place (50 page)

Mario Vargas wiped the bar slowly, methodically, then emptied the lone ashtray and refilled the bowl of peanuts. The shoppers' tea crowd had drifted home. Pre-theatre couples were finishing gin and tonics and would soon wander out into the night. Several of the older members had headed in the direction of the dining room, which at the weekend would be echoing and poorly patronised. The only customers left in the bar, who at a guess were settling in for a session, were two middle-aged gents who seemed to have nowhere else to go. He hoped they would not become maudlin or start talking politics to him. He was not in the mood.

‘Don't mind if I do.'

As the whisky glass was raised to the optic, George realised it was his fourth of the night. ‘Make it a double?' his friend enquired convivially. George nodded.

The two men moved down to the end of the club bar. This was not his normal haunt on a Saturday night; and George could only vaguely remember the portly man at his side who claimed to have served with him in Cyprus. Philip, wasn't it? George attempted a calculation. He must be in his mid-fifties. Looked older, with that sweaty red face, thinning hair and straining shirt buttons: time had not been kind.

‘How's the wife, George?'

George gulped the whisky too quickly and coughed. ‘Wife?' he asked blankly.

‘Yes – Marjorie, was it? Margaret? You used to get letters from her. Bit besotted, you were – we caught you once in your bunk with a book of love poetry, trying to find something suitable to write back. Don't you remember?'

George struggled. ‘There was a lot of joshing from the lads, that I do recall. I must have been very young.'

Philip put a fist into the peanuts and stuffed them into his mouth. ‘You did get married – I think I was invited but couldn't go. Not still the missus, then?'

‘No.'

‘I'm on my third,' the man confided. ‘You learn a lot about the ladies as you go through life, but it's not always congenial. Bloody women!'

‘I'll drink to that,' George muttered, and drained the glass. With an unobtrusive movement Mario refilled it.

‘You see,' Philip theorised, ‘these women, they don't know what they want. Starts off
lovey-dovey
. A woman needs a home, security, kids. A name. Not keen on sex, most of 'em, but they'll oblige in return for a position in life, see? Mrs Philip Horne. That's what it said on the Harrods account. What more could a fellow offer?'

‘Never satisfied,' George mumbled. ‘You give them your all and it's not enough.'

‘I don't bother these days.' Philip reached for the fresh drink. His greasy finger marks on the crystal were like a child's. ‘Stick to girlfriends. Nothing permanent. Good night out in return for a bit of the other. Keep 'em happy with flowers, perfume. It works. I'm having a bit of fun for once in my life.'

George contemplated the idea, but casual relationships had never been his style. He eyed his companion. ‘So what went wrong tonight, then? How come you're not out gallivanting with some pretty girl half your age?'

‘Ah, there's the rub.' The man sighed theatrically. ‘The age factor. Gets us all in the end, you know. I took her to the races Wednesday. Cheltenham, big day out. Me in best bib and tucker and the dolly very fetching in a new hat. At the paddock there were more eyes on her than on the horses. Big lunch, champagne, the lot – well, I'd made a killing on those relaunched Baring's shares.
Mid-afternoon
she's vanished. Gone off with the winning jockey in the three-thirty. Twenty-two years old. Shan't put any more money on him, I can tell you. Or her.'

George stared gloomily into his drink. ‘Been on my own a long time,' he murmured, half to himself. ‘Didn't bother me. Then I met… someone special. Now I can't bear to go home alone.'

‘I've got a few phone numbers, if that'll help,' his companion suggested. He began to rummage in his jacket pockets.

‘Thanks, but that'd make it worse.' George made up his mind. He put the glass down on the counter and fastened his jacket with a slight hiccup. ‘If I stay here the whole night they'll have to carry me back. I think I'll go to a movie. Something violent and bloody to match my mood. Coming?'

He felt restless. Nearly everything was ready. The bolt on the big gate had been fixed. The kitchen and living room were tidy and warm: the fridge was well stocked. Pity the hot water boiler was so unreliable – he could not afford to get it fixed yet. Down in the cellar one or two small jobs remained. He hoped the cellar would not be needed, but it was as well to be sure.

He stood in the middle of the carpet with the television on loud and watched as lottery balls fell down the Perspex tube, one by one, to the roar of drums. Stupid people. Everybody in the hostel had bought tickets, queuing up excitedly on Saturday afternoons and then glued to the box. Not him: he was above trivia. And it was a waste of money. You shouldn't trust to luck. If you wanted
something in life it was better to work for it. Or take it.

As the programme finished he paced around, then with a sudden movement switched off the set. The blue vase on top rattled precariously. He had planned to stay in but the surge of furious energy which now engulfed him made that impossible.

In the kitchen he opened a deep drawer and pulled out the knife. It had a heavy black handle and a fine broad blade, clean as a whistle. He ran a finger along its edge and winced as it cut the skin. For a moment he stood and watched curiously as the blood welled up on the gash. Then he sucked at the wound till the flow stopped.

Time to leave. He pulled on his coat and scarf, though he did not feel cold. And gloves, of course. On an impulse he returned to the kitchen, took down her picture from the wall and stuffed it into his pocket.

The Rover glided to a halt outside the ministerial entrance to the Department of Health, Welfare and the Family. Elaine wondered if it had been wise to start the week with Derek Harrison's voice on BBC Radio.

She was not surprised that the Radio Four
Today
programme, with its aggressive interviewers and devotion to the murkier byways of British politics, had become a target for criticism even from the BBC's own boss John Birt. Whatever serious events might have occurred elsewhere – a government fallen in Italy, a financial crisis in Japan, an earthquake in Argentina or riots in Singapore – the cost of foreign correspondents had deprived producers of access to anything not in English and not near London. Thus the previously unheeded twitterings of the Members' Tea Room were transformed into a daily cacophony belted out on the airwaves, elevating their subjects to an undreamed-of significance and devaluing Parliament itself far more quickly than had any combination of Brussels, referenda and sleaze.

‘No wonder the voters don't trust us,' Elaine mused. The weekend's round of meetings in the constituency combined with the dismal response on the doorsteps had depressed her. It was clear that politicians of every party as a genre had sunk to an all-time low in public esteem.

‘We have news just coming in about a murder…'

Elaine hesitated. Some instinct told her to listen. She motioned to Sheila to turn up the volume.

‘…A woman's half-naked body has been found in bushes at the back of Finsbury Park station. Forensic medical examination indicates it had been there since early Sunday morning. She appeared to have been the victim of a knife attack. Police believe she was a local prostitute and are appealing for witnesses…'

Elaine shivered. ‘They take such risks, those women,' she muttered. Sheila nodded wordlessly and held open the door.

The memory of Derek Harrison's voice and the image of the bundled corpse unsettled Elaine. It was only after two cups of strong coffee and a considerable effort that she was able to concentrate on the matter which demanded her urgent attention: the speech for the MIND conference, which was to take place at last the next day.

Anxiously she paced around, speech in hand, then walked into the small dressing room next to her office. It was dominated by a black leather armchair and the long mirror installed after her request to Chadwick. She pushed the mirror into the corner of the room and closed the door. Now she could rehearse in peace.

‘I am delighted to have this opportunity to be present today. The work of MIND in making mental illness more comprehensible to the general public, and thus its sufferers more acceptable, is widely admired.'

She paused and scribbled. That was clumsy. Civil servants were never engaged for their
ability to
write
. A far more valuable skill was a talent to obfuscate, and in so doing never to offend.

‘You have campaigned long and hard for old hospitals to be closed and replaced with
high-quality
community care. In that respect you have overturned prejudices and helped bring about tremendous social change…'

She liked that bit. It would lead easily into the government's actions, particularly the expenditure of vast sums of the hearers' own money. It was still quite in order for government achievements, even under an ostensibly tax-cutting regime, to be lauded in terms of money spent: inputs. Nobody had any idea how to measure output. What might that mean?

And did good modern care need hospitals or not? Elaine had no more idea than most of her predecessors. The research, commissioned to support latest practice, naturally did just that. Her instincts might move her in the opposite direction but she had no support, could quote no papers. Yet she yearned to get the policy right. That could involve a simple announcement that she would close no more hospitals. St Kitts could be the first for reprieve. If the department wanted a ministerial signature on the closure papers they could seek one elsewhere.

A soft tap came on the door. Elaine sighed. Her confusion was unresolved, but there was no more time. Tomorrow she would have to busk it a bit, and hang the consequences.

Fiona Murray poked her head discreetly around the door.

‘Sorry, Minister, but there's a Detective Inspector Morris here from the CID. It is urgent.'

Elaine handed her the sheets of paper. ‘Can you organise coffee, please, and get this lot retyped? Check it, make sure Miss Clarkson is at least marginally content, then send it upstairs to the Secretary of State for clearance.'

Inspector Morris was a dark-clothed figure with a sombre mien. He waited quietly in the doorway to the outer office until Elaine invited him into the room. He was tall and slim and for a fleeting moment she thought it was George, oddly transposed to her presence. George had not been in touch since that conversation in the rain. There had been no time: with a guilty pang she realised she had barely thought about him. She motioned the policeman to sit as coffee was served.

‘What is it this time, inspector?' she enquired brightly. ‘Middle East terrorists? Animal rightists? Or an international spy ring in South Warmingshire?'

The inspector half laughed. His voice was very deep. ‘No, Mrs Stalker.' In front of him he placed a large brown envelope. Out of it he took a polythene bag with a tied-on label and removed from it a folded piece of tattered coloured paper. He smoothed it out methodically on the table before pushing it over to her. ‘Do you remember this article?'

It was the astrology piece in the
Radio Times
which had so irritated both Elaine and the inhabitants of the house in Battersea. She examined it, puzzled. ‘It was some time ago…' she began doubtfully.

The inspector pointed. ‘Can you see what's written in the margin? It's a bit faint.'

She turned the piece of paper and screwed up her eyes. Her lips moved silently as her finger traced the ill-formed letters. Then she pulled her hands away as if bitten.

The policeman leaned across the table and retrieved the evidence. ‘Yes, you have it,' he commented laconically. ‘It says, “Die, bitch, because you are not so beautiful or clever.'”

Elaine found her voice. ‘Is it directed at me? Does somebody want me dead?'

‘It may help to know where we found it.' Morris raised his cup to his lips and sipped slowly, his eyes on Elaine. Her face told him that she knew nothing whatever. His duty, therefore, was simply to warn her. ‘It was on the body of the girl we found this morning in Finsbury Park. She had had her throat cut – a single wound. We think it was probably directed at her.'

‘What? Was she killed because she
wasn't
me?'

‘We don't know, Mrs Stalker. But somebody is making a comparison of sorts. We've briefed your security staff here. One of my team is on the way to your local police station to talk to people
there. We need you to be particularly careful. The same applies to members of your family and your close associates.'

‘Oh, no. My God.' Elaine felt drained. For a few moments the inspector spoke softly to her about extra vigilance and the need to check alarm systems both in London and at home in Warmingshire. In return she handed over Karen's address and her former husband's, and after a moment's hesitation those of Betty and George.

‘Thank you. We are dealing with a fairly nasty character, I'm afraid, so you must take no chances.' He paused. There was no need to upset her unduly – yet if she were sufficiently alarmed she might be better protected. He pointed at the writing. ‘Did you notice?'

‘Notice what?' She peered over to get a better look. ‘Our friend has weird habits. This message is done with a fingertip, not a pen or Biro.'

Elaine felt herself go cold. ‘Yes?'

‘I am sorry, Mrs Stalker. As far as we can tell, it's been written in the victim's blood.'

After the police officer left, Elaine called in her staff and, without revealing the more gruesome elements, issued brief instructions. Faces drawn, they went about their tasks for the rest of the day in unusual silence. The matter would have to be kept quiet. Nothing whatever would appear in the press about the direct connection between the dead woman and one of Her Majesty's Ministers. To publicise the link would advertise the lunacy, which might delight the criminal and invite further bizarre acts. It was vital to protect information useful to the criminal inquiry were a confession obtained. Nobody could accurately make up details like that.