The Bones in the Attic (12 page)

“Yes, I do,” said Matt, unable to keep a note of surprise out of his voice. “A lot of it's routine, but there's a lot of interesting stuff comes up too, and of course I'm still mad about football.”

“I'm a Radio Four person myself,” said Cazalet, as if someone had asked him his religion. “Do you just read what's on the—what do they call it?—the prompter?”

“No. Apart from news bulletins I write my own stuff, or make it up off-the-cuff when I'm doing a talk-in.”

“We've heard about your item on the Liza Pomfret show,” said Mrs. Quinton. “If only we'd lived here a bit longer we might have been of help.”

“It would have had to be a lot longer, I think. We're working on the theory that it happened over thirty years ago.”

“Before our time,” said Mrs. Cazalet, as if to dismiss the subject.

“Yes,” muttered her husband. “We knew Mr. Farson, of course—”

“Though he kept himself to himself,” resumed his wife. “As we do.”

“Quite. But we never knew the lady he bought the house from. So really, we're no use to you at all.”

“You didn't know the Basnetts in Dell View?”

“No. Never heard the name.”

“Or the Armitages in your own house?”

“Oh, no. It wasn't them we bought it off. I seem to
remember there were Armitages at our church about that time, though.”

“Which church is that?”

“The Methodist Church in Town Street.”

“They didn't have a boy called Eddie, did they?”

“They had a boy. Quiet type. But the boy stopped coming, and I think the parents moved away.”

“You did know them, though?”

“Just to greet on Sunday morning. The congregation isn't large, you see, and wasn't then. We knew everyone, but just by sight.”

The Quintons had moved away, and Matt felt no compunction about doing the same, leaving the Cazalets to themselves, as they so obviously preferred. He was turning round to see if anyone he hadn't spoken to had arrived when he felt his arm touched, and he was then led away by the Goldblatts. They took him over to the other side of the room, where Isabella, if anything too hospitable, plied them with unwanted refills.

“Lovely eats,” said Mr. Goldblatt in a party voice. “Someone has imagination.”

“And what an . . . interesting plant,” his wife said. But Isabella had lunged away at the sight of an empty glass, so she took her tone down to a more normal level and said: “We heard you talking about the Armitages. And there was something—just a little scrap—that we have dredged up, that we were intending to tell you.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” said her husband.

“No, don't. I suppose the Cazalets didn't know about this—they're not the sort that gossip reaches—”

“Keep themselves to themselves,” said Matt with a grin.

“Yes. Isn't it incredible that so many of the English regard that as a virtue? Anyway, this is just some snippet that we remembered and thought might be of use. It came quite casually from Mr. Farson's son.”

“Oh? Actually he said he'd just drop in tonight, but I haven't seen him.”

“Well, it was when he came to see us after he'd persuaded his father to go into a home. We got talking about the fact that people are living a lot longer these days, but that this means more and more spend their last years as victims of Alzheimer's or one of those conditions.”

“True,” said Matt in heartfelt tones. “May I die at seventy.”

“When you're a bit older you'll probably add five to that,” said Mr. Goldblatt.

“And another five when you're older still,” said his wife. “Anyway, he said: ‘We're all just coming to accept it in the old. Sad but common. And mental illness isn't the disgrace it once was. The people next door in Linden Lea when my father moved here had a son who'd had a mental breakdown. They moved away and eventually left the area entirely because they couldn't stand the talk.' I'm quoting from memory, of course. That would be the Armitages, wouldn't it?”

“It could be. I haven't got the chronology altogether straight yet. This is all news to me. I suppose they must have moved away at about the time Farson bought the house, or a bit later. The boy, Eddie, would still have been quite young then—perhaps still a teenager. But teenagers do have breakdowns. And eventually he committed suicide. . . .”

“It's all beginning to sound like a sad little story,” said Mr. Goldblatt.

“It is. Oh, there's the bell—”

But Isabella, he saw, was marching to the front door, and his way was stopped by Jason Morley-Coombs, his bimbo-who-dared-not-speak-her-name in tow, both of them looking as if they'd taken advantage of every refill Isabella had proffered in their direction. Jason's walk had developed a slight stumble, and as he waylaid Matt his speech had a definite slur.

“I shay, I've jusht thought of shomething, old chap.”

“Excellent,” said Matt.

“I do know shomeone—well, barely know him, jusht to nod to—shomeone who ushed to live in these houses.”

“Really?”

“Name of Rory Pemberton. My dad ushed to be his solicitor, before he made the big time. Still ushesh him now and then on local mattersh. One of the original whizz-kid yuppiesh in the city, got the drink habit along with the eighteen-hour working day. Came back up here with hish loot, and still cleansh up nichly on anything going, know what I mean? Wish I had hish eye for a surefire quick profit. Now Rory Pemberton—”

“I know of Pemberton,” said Matt, trying to avoid a long session of learning what he already knew. “Used to live in Ashdene.”

“Did he? Only know he ushed to live here somewhere—
Dad told me, of coursh. Well, I bet I could get hish addresh for you.”

“It's twenty-seven Chalcott Rise, just off the A650, this side of Bingley.”

“Oh, I shay, old chap, you
have
been the great detective, haven't you? And they tell me that our dark-skinned friend over there is your tame policeman—”

“If you'll excuse me,” Matt said, and made his escape toward the front door, where Isabella was just bringing through someone he recognized from their brief encounter at the estate agents' as Carl Farson. He was pushing sixty, his hair silvering nicely, with an air of authority about him. Matt dimly remembered being told he was manager of a big supermarket, one of a chain.

“Hello,” said Matt, holding out his hand. “Good of you to come.”

“A pleasure. This house seems to have become quite famous locally in the last couple of weeks. It's certainly looking sprucer and more lived-in.”

“Didn't it seem lived-in when your dad was here?”

“Not really. It was as if he were camping out. He had no one to make it into a home for him.”

“Can Isabella get you a drink?”

“I've already ordered a small martini.”

“I expect you know most of the people here.”

“Some of them,” he said, looking cautiously round as if there were some he was happy to meet again, some not.

“Actually, your name has already come up tonight,” said Matt.

“Oh?”

“The Goldblatts told me that you'd mentioned the Armitages to them—the son's mental problems.”

“I believe I did. Nice people—the Goldblatts, I mean. The Armitages too, actually . . . I imagine this is in connection with the baby business, isn't it?”

“Yes. I suppose the police have been on to you.”

“They have—the chap over there, in fact. And the
West Yorkshire Chronicle
as well. But there really wasn't anything I could tell them. And if the year 1969 is right, that was years before I knew the Armitages.”

“That doesn't mean the dead baby and the mental illness weren't connected.”

That seemed to be a new idea to him.

“No-o-o. Well, it was when Dad moved here that I got to know them slightly. Dad was still working—you worked till you were sixty-five then, none of this early retirement—and I and my sister did most of the organizing for him. The Armitages were next door in Linden Lea, and they kept a key to this place, to let in gas men, electricity men, and so on. I never saw the son: he was in a mental hospital—they told me that in hushed voices.”

Matt nodded. This was something he remembered himself. Mental illness, like babies born out of wedlock, was unmentionable in some households.

“You got the impression they were somehow ashamed of his mental problems?”

“Well, that was the way I accounted for their attitude. Don't get me wrong: I wasn't particularly interested, and didn't think about it much, but they told me at one point they were intending to put their house on the market, and I decided they regarded such things as somehow shameful—perhaps a mark of their own lack of success as parents—and they wanted to move farther away, to somewhere they weren't known.”

“They didn't give any other reason?”

“Well, they said their son hated these houses. It didn't seem very likely, a lad of eighteen or so. . . .” He pulled himself up. “But I suppose, knowing what we now know—”

“It could just be the truth.”

Carl Farson nodded his head in agreement. Soon after that he slipped away from the party.

Talking to Charlie and Felicity when all the other guests had made their farewells, Matt said, “I'd like to know all you've got on Eddie Armitage. Date of his suicide, details of the inquest, any relative living at the time—just anything at all.”

“Charlie will get them for you,” Felicity assured him. Charlie raised a humorous eyebrow.

“You can take the word of my chief superintendent,” he said.

The houses on Chalcott Rise (which did actually rise) had been built, judging by appearances, for the at least comfortably well-heeled. Like the Otley Road house they were thirties-spacious, with similar gently curved bows and fresh-painted white plaster. Presumably it was a style Pemberton felt at home in—more airy, more cosmopolitan than the grimmer air of the stone terraces in Houghton Avenue. The garden, when he got to number 27, was
custom-gardened—everything cut back neatly, everything in place, with wood chips to keep down the weeds. Already before he got to the gate he was hearing through an open downstairs window loud orchestral music—he was no expert, but he thought it was the “Ride of the Valkyries.”

“Turn down that fucking music, for chrissake!”

It was a female voice from inside the house—Rory's current discontented bimbo, presumably. By the time Matt got to the front door the music had changed to something he dimly remembered as the music for a big film about space. Presumably this was a CD of classic hits from the silver screen, or in other words loud music one could just about recognize. It hadn't been turned down.

He rang the bell. The music continued blaring. Nobody came to the door. He rang again, keeping his thumb on the button for five seconds or so. The music thundered on, but this time he heard the voice again, yelling over the din, “Are you going to fucking answer that? It won't be for me.”

Seconds later footsteps could be heard down the hall, and a chain being taken off the door.

“Yes?”

The man who opened the door was fortyish, plump to the point of fatness, with red, puffy cheeks and bleary eyes. He had in his hand a tumbler full of nearly dark brown liquid, and he smelled like a distillery.

“Hello. Mr. Pemberton?” The pouchy cheeks wobbled as the man nodded. “My name is Matthew Harper. We knew each other as children.” This was met with a blank stare. “There's a small matter I'd like to have a chat about, if you could spare the time.” The small matter being a dead baby, Matt thought.

The man's eyes blinked wetly. Matt thought it was
touch and go whether he said “Get lost” or invited him in. After a few seconds he stood uncertainly aside and said thickly: “Come in.”

He led the way down the tall-piled carpet of the hallway, then into a large, plumply furnished room, where the music was still scaling the hemisphere from an ostentatious unit on the far wall. Rory went straight over to the drinks cupboard, looked at his own glass and seemed rather puzzled that it didn't need a refill, then remembered he had a guest.

“Want a drink?”

“Thank you. I'd like a beer.”

“Plenty of scotch.”

“Better not, I'm driving.”

“Fucking police! . . . Er, what was it?”

“Beer, please.”

Thought, for Rory Pemberton, was a matter of intense and visible concentration. When it was over he pulled at a door, selected a can, then poured it uncertainly into a glass. As he did so the door behind Matt swung open, a hard-faced young woman marched in and over to the stereo unit, turned off the music, then marched out again. Rory at first seemed uncertain what had happened, then inclined to protest, then registered it was too late. He shrugged, and gestured Matt toward the glass. Probably he thought it would be better for the carpet if Matt went over and got it, and Matt agreed.

By now Rory seemed uncertain as to why he was there, or if there was any reason why he had invited him in.

“Like I said,” Matt began as if they were in the middle of a conversation, “we used to know each other.” Not surprisingly there was no recognition. Rory just blinked,
which he did a lot. “I used to come and play five-a-side football one summer with you children in Houghton Avenue.”

Rory thought heavily.

“Used to enjoy football,” he eventually said thickly. “Used to play it every school holiday. We never took to cricket.”

“That's right. It was the summer holiday when I came up and played five-a-side. The summer of 1969.”

He looked for a reaction in Rory's face. At first it was totally blank, then the tiniest suspicion of a frown came into the center of the forehead. It stayed there for a second or two, then the face went blank again and he raised his glass.

“Cheers,” he said. Matt resumed the burden of the discussion.

“I used to come up the gill from Grenville Street, where I was staying with my auntie. I played with your group over several weeks. There was Peter Basnett—I'm sure you remember him: he was rather my protector, because I was a lot younger than all of you. And there was Marjie Humbleton—she was very kind too. And I remember at least once going into your kitchen and eating you out of house and home, or at least out of ice cream in your freezer.”

He had been afraid he had been chattering on to the human equivalent of a blank wall, but the last reminiscence seemed to arouse a memory or strike a chord in the dull consciousness of the man.

“Little scrap of a thing, with a common accent,” Rory Pemberton said, almost clearly.

“That's right.”

“What was the accent? London?”

“That's right, Cockney.”

“What happened to it? You move upmarket?”

“We moved away.”

“You could play. You could play football. You were fast and you were incred . . . incredibly accurate.”

“Thanks.”

“They welcomed you in because you were so good.” His attitude puzzled Matt. This was beginning to sound less like praise than an arraignment, a recital of charges by a prosecuting counsel. “You just barged in and became a member of the gang, and nobody minded that you spoke like a prole.”

“I was only seven. I suppose I didn't know all the initiation procedures,” said Matt, thinking apology was the best option. Rory considered this heavily, then downed his glass and got up for a refill. In the silence Matt heard luggage bumping against the stair rail, and then the front door closing. He wondered whether this was one more woman walking out on Rory.

“I'm not surprised you remember the ice cream,” said Rory, coming back and sitting opposite Matt, speaking with a sort of complacency. “They all came for our ice cream.” Then the mood darkened again. “Fucking better than
their
parents ever bought. Everyone knew it. . . .
Fucking spongers.
”

“I expect we were,” said Matt. That seemed to ignite a small spark of anger.

“Listen to him! We! Some little tyke from the Old Kent Road barges in and then it's ‘we'! Makes me puke. I was never ‘we.' I was cheaper than the ice cream van, that's all I was.” Inside, Matt was torn between laughing at the
maudlin self-pity of the man and admiring the surprising accuracy of his assessment. “I never had any friends. Still don't. That was Vara walking out on me just now.”

“I expect she'll be back.”

Rory shook his head, apparently not greatly concerned.

“No, she won't. She gave me a warning. Said she'd leave me if I didn't get a grip on things. . . . Who
wants
to get a grip on things, for chrissake?” He looked around the plush living room—conspicuously, almost distastefully proclaiming a good income. “Does it
look
as if I can't make a living? Drinking doesn't stop me knowing where to put my money, I can tell you. If I was as hopeless as
she
says I am I'd be in some crappy doss-house begging for pennies on the street. . . . I can do without her. I can do without anybody. I've never needed friends.” He looked at Matt fiercely. “Some people can do without friends.”

People like Genghis Khan and Count Dracula, thought Matt. But Rory Pemberton was not in that class. He wasn't even in the Andrew Lloyd Webber class. Matt felt he'd never met anybody more in need of friends.

“Other people resent you if you've got money. They think you're trying to buy them. I wasn't trying to buy them! But they never wanted me for myself. . . . Even Lily Marsden never liked me.”

“I know Lily,” said Matt. “She still lives in Bramley.”

His face showed—or perhaps pretended—that that was news to him.

“Christ, does she? You'd have thought she'd have got away from that dump. She always had her eye on the main chance, did Lily. I admired her for that.”

“But it never brought you together?”

He blinked, and a petulant expression took over his face.

“I didn't say that. I said she never
liked
me. . . . And anyway, she was never willing to
share.
She never introduced me to her friend.”

“Oh? Who was that?”

“I told you, thickie, she never introduced me. Said the friend wouldn't be interested. You can imagine how good that made me feel. That was typical. She kept all the good things to herself. Just
used
people.”

“Yes, I think she's still like that,” said Matt. “Where did the friend live?”

“Down those streets at the bottom of the gill. Can't have been
much,
living there. . . . That's where you came up from, didn't you say?”

“That's right.”

“Well, you've pulled yourself up, haven't you?”

“I suppose I have,” said Matt, rather glad that the aggressiveness he had cultivated in his footballing days had long ago left him. “Do you remember which of the streets Lily's friend lived in?”

“Oh, for chrissake, it's thirty years ago! Thirty bloody years! Anyway, it's not something anybody'd want to remember.”

“Isn't it? I don't think I'm understanding.”

But Rory Pemberton didn't reply. He smiled down into his remaining whiskey, then got up and went over to the bar, refilling generously.