The House of Women (6 page)

11

A blue haze softened the distant mountain peaks behind the hospital, and, locking his car, McKenna felt the vicious afternoon heat almost as an entity. A young man sat on the kerb outside the psychiatric unit, the sun beating down on his head, a cigarette clutched in his shaking hands, and as McKenna approached, he lurched to his feet, and staggered blindly towards the casualty department.

The grass around the pathology laboratories was bleached and patchy, the shrubs tinder dry, and McKenna wondered if this weather, freakish even by local standards, was really the fall-out of nuclear tests in the South Pacific, as people were wont to suggest. When he pulled open the door, cooler air slapped him in the face, and the smell of the death-house wormed into his nose and settled at the back of his throat.

*

‘
I think Edward Jones is trying to tell us something,’ the pathologist said. ‘It’s what you might call an unfinished dialogue between us and his corpse.’

Supine under the bright lights, Ned seemed smaller than McKenna remembered, almost as frail as a child
on the huge steel table. Tracing his gloved finger along the autopsy incision, he said: ‘Tidy work.’

‘
I was particularly careful. I didn’t want to damage the torso any more than necessary.’ Leaning over the body, plastic apron crackling, the green-gowned pathologist pointed to a riddle of welts and marks. ‘See the scratches all round his neck? There was a lot of skin under his nails, which is probably his, so I assume he clawed at his neck when he couldn’t breathe, as people do when they’re panicking for air. Now, I thought at first those thin red lines of congestion on his chest were random, but there seems to be a pattern, and it became much clearer when the weals and swellings from the allergic reaction began to decay.’ He lifted Ned’s hands, and showed them to McKenna, first the finger ends, nails trimmed neatly and spotlessly clean, then the palms, slightly roughened and patchy with old calluses. ‘Hands often toil a life history, but he’s still holding back on me. I hear he spent his time shuffling paper and reading books, but these hands have done a lot of hard labour in their time.’

‘
He was brought up on a farm,’ McKenna was suddenly touched by a sense of loss. ‘Are you absolutely sure an allergic reaction killed him?’

He nodded.
‘I’ve never seen such elevated levels of histamine and bradykinin, and most of this discoloration is
urticaria
factitia
. Wholly consistent with, as it were.’

‘
Could he have been saved?’

‘
Only by performing a tracheotomy within minutes. Now then, if you look carefully at the thin red lines on his chest, what can you see?’

McKenna leaned over the body, the scent of death strong in his nostrils, staring at the mottled flesh around the neatly closed incision which would never
heal. ‘Letters, I think.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘An “F” and an “E”, and both back to front.’

‘
They’re more distinct in the pre-autopsy photographs.’

‘
Nothing was mentioned when he was examined at the scene on Friday.’

Going back to the office, leaving Ned exposed on the table, the pathologist said:
‘I wouldn’t bother tearing a strip off the attending physician, because but for those marks, this would look like straightforward natural causes.’ He sat behind the desk and opened a drawer, extracting a bagged shirt and a sheaf of photographs. ‘Where the skin’s been sensitized by allergic reaction, it can be marked with something sharp and thin, like a fingernail, producing what’s called
dermatographia
, or, in plain language, skin-writing. The condition’s also called
tache
cerebrale
, but that’s more specific to meningitis.’ Spreading out the large coloured prints, he said: ‘The letters are quite clear, but as they’re the wrong way round, they could be mirror writing after da Vinci, or, as he was
in
extremis
at the time, they could mean nothing.’

‘
Which hand did he use?’

The pathologist shrugged.
‘Natural right-handers can sometimes do mirror writing with the left hand, so presumably, southpaws can do the same with the right. The pressure variations suggest he wrote from left to right, but don’t take it as gospel.’ He dropped another photograph on the pile, of Ned dead in his chair, dressed in his old fashioned clothes. ‘But you can be sure somebody tampered with the body. That’s taken at the scene, and he was still all neatly buttoned up in collar and tie when we got him.’ Showing McKenna the white shirt, frayed around collar and cuffs, he added: ‘You can see where he almost tore off the buttons, and there were shredded fibres from the tie under his nails, which according to the label, is made of Macclesfield silk, so it must be quite old.’

‘
When will you know what caused the reaction?’

‘
As soon as the toxicology results come back, which should be within days, but I expect he ingested an antibiotic, despite the known allergy. The reaction was very typical.’ Stacking the photographs, he added: ‘I know he hadn’t been prescribed antibiotics since last year, but he could easily have swallowed a couple of left over tablets thinking they were something else. People get very careless with drugs.’

‘
He was careful to the point of neurosis, according to Gabriel Ansoni.’ McKenna lit a cigarette, trying to chase away the taste in his mouth. ‘And he wasn’t senile. How was his general physical condition?’

‘
There’s little to substantiate all the ills he complained about, apart from an interesting inflammation in the colon, so he could’ve looked forward to his three score years and ten, given the usual creaky joints and chronic backache. He badly needed a new set of false teeth, because the ones I took out of his mouth must be nearly as old as his tie, which is probably why he had a mouth full of ulcers.’ The pathologist put the photographs in a large plastic wallet. ‘You can take these, but I haven’t finished with the clothing yet.’

‘
Did you find his SOS bracelet?’ McKenna asked.

The pathologist shook his head.
‘Not even in the lining of his jacket. Perhaps you need to search his room again.’

12

Diana Bradshaw glanced at McKenna, then at the photographs he had placed on her desk. ‘Isn’t it rather fanciful to suggest the old man scratched a message on his chest?’

‘
Not necessarily, and it’s obvious he tore at his shirt and tie, and even more obvious that someone tidied him up before the doctor and Janet arrived at the house.’

‘
Well, yes, but perhaps the person wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘
Or perhaps the person was trying to obscure those tell-tale marks.’

‘
But what tale do they tell?’ She smiled again, a gesture McKenna had decided was an obfuscation in itself, and said: ‘“F—E” and “E—F” don’t make any sense, whichever way around they are.’

‘
Clearly, Ned died before he could finish, but there are issues here which need investigating.’

‘
Oh, I couldn’t agree more! But until we know the cause of death, it wouldn’t be wise to decide what those issues actually are. For the time being, just soft-pedal, and keep the questions discreet. Mrs Harris is well-respected, and not without connections, so it wouldn’t do to upset her.’

‘
And if he ingested antibiotics, as the pathologist suggested?’

‘
Obviously, you’ll have to find out where they came from.’

‘
And who might have given them to him?’

She frowned.
‘I’m far more inclined to see this as a suicide. Everything points that way.’

‘
If Ned killed himself, I think he would have sat in his chair, or lain on his bed, and died quietly, but I think someone poisoned him, and when he realized, he made a frantic effort to tell us who.’

‘
We’ll see, shall we?’ She smiled again, pushing the photographs towards McKenna without looking at them. ‘And I’m sure you won’t be influenced by what that silly girl said to Janet. By the way, can you double up with Rowlands for a few days? The decorators are coming in on Wednesday, and I thought it would be a nice gesture if they did your office first.’

‘
So I get a lick of paint in lieu of promotion, do I?’

‘
Oh, dear!’ She winced. ‘I really hoped we’d get through this little difficulty without any bitterness.’

He rose, picking up the photographs.
‘I wasn’t aware you had a difficulty, ma’am, little or otherwise.’

‘
Then please make sure you don’t create any.’ Her eyes were flinty.

13

‘Where are we going now?’ Rowlands asked, peering through the windscreen.

‘
Mr McKenna wants me to show you the lie of the land,’ Dewi offered.

‘
I’ve seen it. Mountains, more mountains, and the worst bloody roads on the British mainland.’ He shifted his cramped legs. ‘No wonder your suspension’s knackered.’

‘
I was going to show you where Geraint’s mate Dervyn works, sir, and then drive by the other outfits where dodgy cars’ve turned up in the past few months.’ Reducing speed as the road entered Bethel village, Dewi added: ‘We haven’t been shirking on this investigation. We did a history on each car, looked for patterns in distribution and sales, trawled the auctions, checked out known car-ringing outfits, and came up with a blank at every turn. One minute everything’s above board and legal, the next it isn’t. And before we took over when the stolen engines started turning up, Trading Standards had spent months on it.’

‘
D’you really think Geraint’s involved?’

Dewi shrugged.
‘I doubt if he’s got the nous to clock a car, and his dad’s even dopier. I think somebody palmed off the car on him, like Dervyn got landed with the two-piece coupe, and they’re both too scared to say anything.’

‘
I’m sure they got a backhander,’ Rowlands commented. ‘That garage can’t turn much profit.’

‘
Selling cars is only a sideline, sir. Most of the work comes from repairs and maintenance and MOTs. The locals and the farmers depend on small garages like Geraint’s to keep their vehicles on the road.’

‘
Would threatening to suspend MOT licences loosen any tongues?’

‘
They’d tell us to bugger off and get on with it.’ Dewi grinned. ‘Why d’you think these parts are called the “Wild West”?’

‘
Because you’re competing with the lawless mobs in Manchester and Liverpool, and from what I’ve seen, doing very well. Your crime statistics
per
capita
are much higher than central division’s.’

‘
How long have you been there, sir?’

‘
Four years last March.’

‘
And where d’you live?’

‘
In a civilized patch outside Ruthin, where the roads are flat, and there’s not a mountain in sight.’

14

Phoebe Harris answered McKenna’s summons at the front door, the cat draped as usual over her shoulder, and an ugly bruise darkening her cheek.

‘
I’m Chief Inspector McKenna,’ he said. ‘You must be Phoebe. Is your mother in?’

Before she could answer, he heard a high-pitched voice calling from inside the house, and she turned away, leading him into the sitting room, where Edith stood before the fireplace, fronds of pampas grass brushing the hem of her skirt. She smiled brightly at
her visitor. ‘Make a pot of tea, Phoebe, there’s a good girl. And put that animal down, dear, please! I can’t get the fur off your clothes, and his claws make little holes in everything you wear.’

Phoebe trudged from the room, still carrying the cat, and inviting McKenna to sit down, Edith began an endless stream of inconsequential chatter until her daughter returned with a tea-tray, the cat at her heels.
‘I call him “Phoebe’s little shadow”!’ she said brightly. ‘He’s with her day and night.’

‘
He’s the only friend I’ve got now Uncle Ned’s gone.’ Phoebe sat down, opposite McKenna, and the cat jumped up beside her.

Edith tutted.
‘Don’t be silly, dear. You’ve got your friends in school, and two lovely sisters.’ She sighed. ‘I do wish you’d stop him sitting on the furniture. He moults everywhere.’ She turned to McKenna. ‘He moults all year round, you know. I’ve never known a cat like him. It’s not normal, is it? Should I ask the vet to do something, d’you think?’

‘
He’s got a very thick coat.’ McKenna took the tea Phoebe offered. ‘He’s bound to shed, especially this weather.’

‘
Is he?’ Edith frowned. ‘I suppose so. It
is
hot, isn’t it? D’you think we’ll have a break in the weather soon?’

‘
He’s a policeman, Mama, not a weather forecaster.’

‘
Isn’t she forward?’ Edith laughed, a sound like a spoon against glass. ‘She’s only thirteen, you know, but she’s very bright.’

‘
He’s not a child psychologist, either,’ Phoebe added.

‘
Don’t be so cheeky!’

‘
I’m going upstairs!’ Nudging the cat to the floor, Phoebe picked up her tea, and made for the door. McKenna saw the glint of tears in her eyes, then heard her plod up the stairs, the cat mewling.

‘
Oh, dear!’ Edith sighed again. ‘Aren’t they a trial at that age?’

‘
How did she come by the bruise on her face?’ he asked.

‘
The bruise?’ Eyebrows raised, she paused. ‘Oh, that! She was fighting with Mina. Sisters do have their little scraps, don’t they?’

‘
And what was the fight about?’

She sipped her tea, hands trembling.
‘Phoebe needles her. She will insist on calling her Minnie, which Mina hates, of course, but that’s why Phoebe does it, isn’t it? I expect she’s a bit jealous. Mina’s very pretty, you know.’

‘
And what’s her proper name?’

She smiled.
‘Minerva. She’s named for a Roman goddess. Isn’t it lovely?’

‘
Unusual,’ McKenna observed. ‘And your other daughter?’

‘
We call her Annie, but she’s actually called Anastasia, after the Russian princess.’ The cup rattled in its saucer. ‘She thinks it’s terribly outlandish, so she doesn’t in the least mind being called Annie, but then, she’s not as pretty as Mina.’

‘
And does your husband live with you?’

‘
I don’t have a husband any longer,’ Edith said, her face unreadable.

‘
I see.’ He fell silent, drinking his tea.

‘
What did you want? Is it something about Ned?’

‘
It is indeed, Mrs Harris.’ He put his own cup in its saucer. ‘I have a number of questions.’

‘
What about?’

‘
The actual sequence of events last Friday.’

She stood up, and began to pace the room.
‘But I told the other police officers everything! I heard a noise, as if he’d fallen, then I didn’t hear anything else, and when I realized, I went upstairs and found him like that, so I called the doctor!’ She stopped by the fireplace, wringing her hands. ‘I knew he was dead as soon as I saw him.’

‘
Where was he when you found him?’

‘
In his chair.’ Collapsing on the sofa, she shuddered, wrapping her arms around her body. ‘I’ll have to put out the chair for the bin men, won’t I? It’s all stained, and it was his favourite.’

‘
And how was he dressed?’ McKenna persisted.

‘
Dressed?’ Edith’s voice rose. ‘In his suit.’

‘
It was very hot on Friday, so wasn’t it rather odd for him to be wearing a suit?’

‘
He dressed the same, summer and winter, and if it turned really cold, he’d wear an old knitted waistcoat under his jacket.’ She balled her hands into fists and stared at McKenna. ‘He was brought up thinking it’s indecent to show a shirt, let alone any flesh. They’re all a bit mental on that side of the family, you know.’

‘
Did he always wear a tie, too?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
But his tie was undone when you found him, wasn’t it? And his shirt?’

‘
Yes.’ She nodded, then gasped. Leaping to her feet, she ran to the window, then to the door, then stood rigid, tearing at her hands. ‘I wasn’t thinking!’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘He wouldn’t want people to see him like that! I tidied him up, that’s all!’ Staring at him, the whites of her eyes showing, she asked: ‘How did you know? How did you find out?’

‘
He tore at his tie and shirt, trying to breathe, and scratched his chest and neck in the process, so it was obvious someone tampered with his clothing.’

Stumbling to the sofa, Edith collapsed again.
‘I’m so sorry! I never meant to cause any trouble.’ Tears began to run down her face. ‘I just didn’t think!’

‘
I’ll need a statement from you in due course, Mrs Harris.’

‘
Will I get into trouble?’

‘
Probably not, if that’s all you did,’ McKenna said. ‘By the way, have you told his family we can’t release the body yet?’

‘
Annie rang them on Friday to say he’d died. She went there on Saturday to see them, but it won’t have made any difference, will it?’ She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dried her face, then jumped up again, to rummage in a bureau. ‘Would you let them know about the body?’ She ripped a page from a leather-bound address book, and gave it to him. ‘Tell Gladys. She’s still got some of her wits.’

Folding the page in his wallet, McKenna asked:
‘Who else was here on Friday?’

‘
Who else?’ Edith’s eyes goggled. ‘When? What time of the day?’

‘
Late morning onwards.’

‘
Nobody! The cleaner only comes on Wednesdays.’

‘
Where were the girls?’

‘
Mina’s got a holiday job. She’s at the tech, you know, doing a fashion course.’

‘
And Phoebe?’

‘
Out. She goes for walks on her own, and it’s such a nuisance, because the cat grizzles and frets like a baby until she comes back.’ She tried a little smile. ‘I’ve told her to try him on a leash, then he can go with her.’

‘
Where does she go?’

Edith frowned.
‘I don’t know. I do so worry about her sometimes, wondering if she’ll end up like Ned’s side of the family. She was a little stranger from the moment she was born. Some children are like that, aren’t they?’

McKenna rose.
‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Harris. I’ll send someone to take a statement, and we’ll need to look at Ned’s room again.’

‘
Why?’ The eyes goggled once more. ‘And what about his things? Will you ask Gladys about them? I can’t think
what
to do with all those books and papers.’ Wringing her hands again, she said: ‘Maybe George would know.’

‘
George?’

‘
He’s at the university. Ned was helping him with some work, and he used to come quite often, even though Ned knew I didn’t like having him in the house.’

‘
Why was that?’

‘
Why was what?’ Edith asked. ‘Oh, I see! Oh, George makes eyes at Mina!’

‘
There’s nothing strange about that, surely.’

‘
It’s not nice. She’s got a steady boyfriend, and she doesn’t need a black man trying to turn her head.’

*

Leaving his car outside the Harris house, McKenna walked to the main road, crossed over to Safeway, filled a trolley with groceries and cat food, then sat in the supermarket coffee house, trying to catch up on his day’s quota of cigarettes.

‘
I heard you asking Mama where I was on Friday,’ Phoebe said, placing a glass of orange juice on the table. ‘Can I sit down?’

‘
Of course.’ McKenna nodded. ‘Did you follow me?’

‘
Sort of.’

‘
Where’s the cat?’

‘
Well, he’s not under my skirt, despite what Minnie says about my skirts being big enough to cover an elephant’s backside.’ Slurping the juice, she added: ‘Actually, he’s in the back garden. I don’t let him in the front in case he runs under a car.’

‘
Cats are generally quite sensible with traffic.’

‘
How d’you know? Have you got one?’

‘
I’ve got two, both strays. They decided to squat in my house.’

‘
Oh, that’s really sweet! Are they male or female? What d’you call them?’

‘
One of each, as was.’ McKenna smiled. ‘Fluff arrived first. She’s black and white, and quite plump, and I think Blackie must have some Siamese in him, because he’s very elegant.’

‘
Do they fight?’

‘
Not often, but they chase around the house like lunatics at times, especially when it’s windy.’

She giggled.
‘Tom does, too. He frightens the wits out of Mama.’

‘
Did Uncle Ned like your cat?’

Phoebe nodded.
‘He brought him from the farm for my eighth birthday.’

‘
You’ll miss him, won’t you?’

‘
Yes.’ Slurping more of the juice, she said: ‘I’ve known him all my life. He came to live with us when Minnie was a baby.’

‘
And how old is she now?’

‘
Nineteen. I hate her.’

‘
Why? Because she’s your sister?’

‘
Because she’s mean and nasty. I don’t hate Annie. I think I might even really love her, because I sometimes get that lovely warm feeling for her, like when I cuddle the cat.’ She paused, her eyes dark. ‘I loved Uncle Ned, you know. He was like a father.’

Pointing to the bruise on Phoebe
’s face, McKenna said: ‘Mina must have thumped you pretty hard.’

‘
She did. As I said, she’s mean and nasty, and her boyfriend’s even more horrible. He turns up with a bigger, flashier car every other week, and they drive around like they’re starring in some American road movie. That’s why I call them Bonnie and Clyde. They hate it!’

‘
You could be deliberately provoking some of her anger.’

‘
It doesn’t need provoking! Uncle Ned said she’s out of control, because Mama lets her do as she likes, and never, ever punishes her. I think she’s scared of her.’ She picked up McKenna’s lighter, turned it over to read the inscription, then put it on the table. ‘This is quite old, isn’t it? How long have you had it?’

‘
My parents gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday.’

‘
And what does MJM stand for?’

‘
Michael James McKenna.’

‘
That’s not a very Welsh name, is it?’

‘
My ancestors came from Ireland.’

‘
Half of mine come from Meirionydd.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Mama says they’re all batty, and she’s dead scared I’m like them.’

‘
She mentioned you go for walks on your own.’

‘
I like to think, and you can’t do that in company, can you? And I like watching the sky when it’s cloudy and windy. Sometimes, I just walk half-way over Menai Bridge and look down at the water. It’s dead scary.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Uncle Ned said water represents death, and a bridge represents what he called the ascendancy of faith.’ She paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘Menai Bridge seems like a tug of war between Anglesey and the mainland, something just balanced there, and not real or solid.’ She drained the glass, and smiled briefly. ‘Actually, he was quite right, because if you’re on the bridge, you’re alive, and if you fall off, you’re dead.’