No Escape (32 page)

‘I’ve never wanted to say anything,’ he said, with a show of reluctance. ‘And I wouldn’t be saying it now, but . . .’

‘What’s that, Mr Patston?’ Keenan asked.

Tony could feel them all watching him. He was sweating again, and his head was starting to ache.

‘It was Joanne,’ he said, ‘who hit Irina.’

The room went silent. Keenan glanced at Reed, while Slattery, observing the unmistakably icy distaste as keenly as he might have felt a hard slap, looked down at his hands.

‘That’s not,’ Terry Reed said, after several seconds, ‘the impression we’ve been getting.’

‘Well,’ Tony said, ‘it wouldn’t be, would it?’

‘Word is,’ Reed went on, ‘your wife had to be careful not to let Irina cry too much because you didn’t
like
it.’ He stressed the word as if it possessed a
bad smell.

‘That was what she wanted people to think.’ Tony could feel inspiration continuing to feed him his lines, and it
was
inspiration, because poor Jo couldn’t contradict
him, and no one else had ever seen him touch Irina, had they? ‘Maybe,’ he went on, as if it pained him to say it, ‘maybe she even wanted to think it herself, because she was
afraid of the truth.’

‘What truth was that?’ Keenan asked quietly.

‘That she couldn’t cope as well as she made out,’ Tony replied. ‘That after all we’d gone through to adopt Irina, she wasn’t as good a mother as she’d
thought she was going to be.’

‘So what are you saying?’ Keenan asked. ‘That it was Joanne who got angry when Irina cried?’

‘That’s right,’ Tony said.

‘Yet Joanne went out of her way to keep your daughter with her as much as possible,’ Keenan said.

‘I’m not saying she didn’t
love
her,’ Tony said. ‘Just that she couldn’t cope.’ He looked at his audience. ‘She knew how upset I got when
she hit her.’ He paused again. ‘You’ve no idea how much I hate saying this now, with poor Jo . . .’ He shook his head, felt tears spring into his eyes, wasn’t sure if
he felt more proud or ashamed of his performance, but it was good, no doubt about that, and, more to the point, it was necessary.

‘Take your time, Mr Patston,’ Keenan said.

‘I was going to keep it to myself forever,’ Tony said. ‘I wanted to help her get over it, you know? And I’d rather Sandra didn’t have to hear about it, because
it’ll really do her head in, won’t it? But Joanne could get very screwed up sometimes – especially when she got her PMS – I told you about that, didn’t I?’

‘Actually,’ Keenan said, ‘you said she didn’t get it too badly.’ He referred to his notes. ‘You said, in fact, that Joanne told you she had PMS that last
morning. I asked you if she suffered from it badly, and you said: “She wasn’t too bad.” ’ Keenan smiled. ‘Which was it, Mr Patston?’

A tickle of unease passed through Tony. ‘It was bad,’ he said, as if confessing. ‘I just didn’t want you to know.’ His confidence returned. ‘Because of what
I’ve told you. I didn’t want anyone thinking badly of her.’

‘Very commendable of you,’ Keenan said.

Reed leaned forward. ‘You said Joanne knew how upset you got when she hit Irina.’ His beady eyes had grown particularly sharp.

‘Of course she knew,’ Tony said. ‘It used to go right through me when Irina cried, because I knew what was going to happen, and it made me feel sick.’

‘Did you try to stop her?’ Reed asked.

‘Of course,’ Tony said again.

There was another pause.

‘Is that what happened that day?’ Keenan asked.

‘What?’ Tony said, not understanding. ‘When?’

‘That last morning,’ Keenan said. ‘Before Joanne went out. Did you have to try to stop her hitting Irina then?’

‘No.’ The confidence disappeared, swift as water down a plughole. ‘No, not that morning.’

‘Was it the last straw?’ Keenan asked. ‘Was that when you knew you had to kill Joanne, Tony?’

Tony saw, suddenly, sickeningly, the hole he’d dug for himself.

‘Hold on,’ he said, looking sideways at Slattery, but the big man was just sitting there. ‘That’s crazy. This has got nothing to
do
with her being killed. I was
just explaining about Irina getting hurt, that’s all.’

‘But if you did do it—’ Keenan was leaning forward now, his face intent, his tone encouraging ‘—what you just told us would make it almost
understandable.’

‘But I didn’t.’ Tony stared at the tapes going round and round.

‘Seeing your little girl being hit—’ Reed, too, leaned in ‘—that’s more than enough to push any loving daddy over the edge.’

‘You’re both twisting my words.’ Tony looked desperately from Keenan to Reed, then to Slattery, the useless lump at his side. ‘I had nothing to do with Joanne being
killed – I loved her – I never, ever, touched her, never wanted her dead, not for a
second
!’

Keenan sat back in his chair again, and his smile was merciful, almost priestlike. ‘Take your time, Tony,’ he said. ‘Think about it. Do the right thing now, while you
can.’

‘Right thing?’ Tony echoed incredulously. ‘Christ.’

He stared at them again, looked from one to the other, and knew, with ice in his stomach, that he had no choices left.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ He took a gulp of air. ‘I’m going to tell you about something – something I’ve been trying and trying to keep secret for
so long.’

He had to pause, had to rub the back of his right hand over his eyes, because suddenly he wanted to cry again, but he didn’t have time to start blubbing like a kid now, he had to get this
said, had to get it
out
, before everything got any more out of control.

‘It’s all right,’ Keenan the priest said. ‘Take your time, Tony.’

Tony let his hand fall back onto his knee. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It isn’t that. It’s nothing to do with Jo. It’s something else.’

At last, Richard Slattery reacted. ‘Mr Patston,’ he said. ‘I think a break—’

‘No,’ Tony cut him off. ‘No breaks. No more going round the houses.’ He was sweating again, shaking.

‘I really must advise—’

‘
No
.’ Tony sat right forward, more urgent than ever now. ‘You’ve got to listen.’ He focused on Keenan. ‘Because once I tell you this, you’re
going to understand why I’ve been so messed up. Because Christ knows it’s been hard enough coping with losing Jo, but I’m so scared now of losing Irina too, I’m scared to
death
of that.’

‘Why should you lose Irina?’ Keenan asked. ‘Because you hit her?’

‘
No
,’ Tony half shouted. ‘Nothing to do with that – though I didn’t do that either, I swear it.’ He looked into the detective’s thin, attentive
face, sucked in another desperate breath. ‘I’m scared I’m going to lose Irina,’ he said, ‘because of the way we adopted her.’

Keenan scanned mentally back over the facts Pat Hughes had delivered to him regarding Irina’s adoption, then swiftly returned his attention to the wretched man opposite him.

‘We
bought
her,’ Tony said. ‘We couldn’t get a baby any other way, and Jo wanted to be a mum more than anything else in the world.’ He was crying again.
‘I did that for Joanne because I loved her so much – I’d have done anything for her,
anything.
I could never have hurt her like you think, never.’ He shook his head,
and his voice sank lower. ‘Never.’

At home on Saturday afternoon, sitting in his living room at Shad Tower, leaning back comfortably in his custom-made leather recliner, flicking through satellite TV channels,
Robin Allbeury located the Food and Drink Channel and the programme he’d already established was showing at that time.

There she was in her studio kitchen, looking very fetching in a white cotton shirt and snug-fitting jeans with a blue and white striped apron, working alongside a man wearing a foolish smock.
Her hair seemed a little different, longer, maybe a touch blonder – though that might have been the harsh lighting. A little younger around the eyes – another clue that this was a
repeat of a show recorded at least two, maybe three years earlier. Not that she looked exactly
older
now.

She laughed at something the man said.

The laugh made her extremely beautiful, Allbeury thought. Gave her, for its duration, a more truly relaxed, carefree air, before it drifted away, leaving her other face in its wake. The face
that declared all was well, that Lizzie Piper Wade was doing fine, able to cope with everything life threw at her – even if she might be willing to acknowledge, if pressed, that just a
little
of what it threw at her was hard to take. The face now on the screen was the one Lizzie had presented at the Wades’ dinner party last week.

The face that had so compelled him.

Was still doing so.

Allbeury pushed the mute button on his remote control, glanced at his watch, wondered if the Wades were in Marlow this weekend, or in Holland Park.

Find out.

He’d intended to wait a while longer, at least a few days, before calling again, was, as a rule, a patient man.

With a few notable exceptions.

Of which Lizzie was most definitely one.

He put down the remote, picked up his Palm Pilot, checked the Marlow number, and called it.

‘Hello?’

Her voice.

‘Lizzie, it’s Robin Allbeury.’

‘Oh, hello.’ She sounded pleased. ‘How nice to hear from you.’

‘Good or bad moment?’ he asked. ‘Not that I’ll keep you long.’

‘Quite good actually,’ Lizzie said.

He thought he heard her sitting down, imagined her settling herself comfortably, imagined her with, perhaps, a dog on her lap. . .

For God’s sake.

‘I’m hoping,’ he said, slightly briskly, ‘that you and Christopher will agree to join me for dinner one night soon. Next week, perhaps, or the week after.’

‘I’m sure we’d love to,’ she answered. ‘Except I’ve got a new book out at the end of next week, and the publishers are touring me.’

‘Pity.’ Allbeury contained his disappointment well. ‘And immediately after that, I expect you’ll be exhausted.’

‘Probably,’ Lizzie admitted. ‘I think, from memory, the tour has me in London for a couple of days in the middle of the schedule, so maybe, if by chance our free hours
coincide, we could at least meet up for a cup of something.’

‘Or perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘I can give you a nice, relaxing glass of something at the end of one of your interview days.’

In her study at the house, Lizzie told Allbeury that would be lovely, gave him her mobile number, then hung up and leaned back.

The thought of meeting up with him, possibly on her own, if that was how it happened to work out (and Christopher had already arranged to be in Marlow for the children for at least part of her
tour) was quite surprisingly appealing.

Careful, Lizzie.

She thought back to their dinner, ran through the memory to see if she’d felt, at any point, that the solicitor had been flirting with her, and decided that whatever Susan had said to the
contrary, he had not. And she, even more so, had been far too preoccupied with the children coming down with their colds to give any impression of flirtation back to him.

Yet her memory of Robin Allbeury was of a decidedly attractive, very charming man. And rather a nice one too, she’d thought.

Susan had said she’d thought he ‘fancied’ her.

Lord knew that was the last complication she needed.

Careful
, she told herself again.

Sandra was on her daughter’s kitchen phone on Wednesday morning, pretending to listen to Lilian West – her next-door-neighbour in Edmonton – telling her about
her husband’s forthcoming prostate operation, when the doorbell rang.

‘Lilian, I have to go.’

She heard movement from the living room, knew it would be DC Dean, rather than Tony, going to answer, and that was becoming almost routine, her son-in-law sitting morosely in his chair, letting
other people take care of things, and Sandra knew it wasn’t laziness, could read the now permanent fear in his eyes, and she understood that emotion well enough now, saw it in her own eyes
each time she glanced in a mirror. She’d been so sure ever since they’d found Joanne that there was nothing left to
be
afraid of, but now that she knew the truth about the
adoption – now that the police knew too – knew the endless fear that her own poor child must have endured, day in, day out, of losing Irina, Sandra too, had fallen into a permanent
state of terror.

Of hearing the doorbell.

Of this moment.

She heard the voices at the door. Heard Karen Dean going back into the living room, saying something to Tony, heard him start to shout.

Sandra began to tremble as she opened the kitchen door.

The hall seemed full of strangers, two women and a man, and DI Keenan was there, too, in the background, and DC Dean coming from the living room . . .

She heard the cry then.

Irina’s cry. Wordless, but shrieking.

‘Sandra, I’m so sorry.’ Dean looked distressed as she came towards her.

‘What?’ Sandra pushed past her, saw that a woman with orange hair had picked up Irina, was holding her tightly. ‘What are you
doing
?’

‘Leave it, Sandra.’ Tony was behind the woman, holding a piece of paper in one hand, his face very pale, just standing, doing nothing, just
standing
, watching them take his
daughter away.

‘They have to take her,’ Dean told her, put out a hand to touch her arm.

‘No!’ Sandra moved suddenly, arms out, fingers splayed, trying to grasp at Irina, but the orange-haired woman dodged sideways, and all Sandra’s desperate fingers caught at was
the sleeve of her coat. ‘Give her to me!’

‘There’s nothing you can do, Sandra.’ Dean’s eyes were wet.

‘Give her to
me
!’ Sandra wailed.

She saw Irina’s scared, huge eyes staring at her, and the child’s mouth was open, but for that instant or two she wasn’t actually crying, just open-mouthed with shock and
bewilderment. And then the woman holding her turned around and began to walk out of the door, and Irina began to scream again.