The Invisible Ones (36 page)

She swallows, staring at her plate. I suppose her husband has just
told her about her mother’s death. She’s doing remarkably well, considering.

“It was all arranged by Dad and Mr. Janko. I wasn’t much of a catch . . . what with this.” Her hand gestures toward her neck, a bitter smile. “People saw it as bad luck.”

“Ah,”
I murmur.

“And him . . . he was good-looking enough, certainly—but there were these rumors. They tried to keep it quiet, but there was some family disease—I don’t know what. They weren’t popular. I think they thought neither of us would find anyone better.”

She picks up her teacup and sips, gathering herself again. Then she tosses back her hair—which barely moves—picks up a lurid pink cube, and smiles at me. The sudden change in her expression is disconcerting. She pushes the plate toward me.

“Aren’t you going to have one? They’re lovely. Homemade.”

This seems unlikely, but, obedient, I pick up the nearest one—a yolk-yellow blob that reminds me of a giant pustule—and put it on my plate.

“And the wedding took place in . . . October of ’78?”

She nods.

“So how long did you live together?”

“Oh . . . A few months? Not much more than that . . . We got married in October; then I went on the road with him and his father—went to Lincolnshire and the Fens, I think, somewhere like that.”

She trails off.

“And what happened?”

She sighs. Her head is bent over, eyes glued to the flowered tablecloth.

“I know it must be difficult to talk about, Mrs. Hart. Take your time.”

There is a longish silence.

“He didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“You mean Ivo . . . ?”

“It was like, the day after the wedding, as soon as we were alone, he couldn’t stand the sight of me. He wouldn’t barely say anything. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.”

Her voice is so low we both have to lean forward to catch it.

“We had one trailer, and Mr. Janko had another, but he spent most of the time in his dad’s trailer. When I did see him, he was really cold.”

“Cold in what way?”

“Cold! You know. Unfriendly. In a bad mood the whole time. I’d just be sitting there, wondering what on earth I’d done.”

“Was he . . . violent toward you?”

“I heard him shouting at his dad sometimes.”

“Did he shout at you, too?”

Rose looks down at the crumbs of pink sugar on her plate and presses her fingertip to one. Lifts her skinny shoulders in a way that reminds me she is only twenty-five, a young woman, despite the middle-aged clothes and hairdo.

“Mrs. Hart?”

“Well, he . . . I didn’t understand. I thought we had got married, you know? That we were man and wife, but if I . . . if I tried to . . . he acted like I was completely stupid and ugly. Wouldn’t touch me. Wouldn’t let me touch him. Wouldn’t . . . undress in front of me.”

She is speaking to the plate in front of her.

“Did he ever hit you?”

She traces the outline of a flower on the tablecloth but shakes her head vigorously.

“No. Just . . . said things.”

She takes out a tissue and carefully wipes the corners of her eyes, so as not to smear the blue shadow.

“So, forgive me, are you saying that . . . there was never any . . .”

I search for the polite term.

She smiles up at the fluorescent tube above us, blinking back tears.

“What do they call it? Unconsummated? That was it. So if he’s had a kid, it was . . . with someone else.”

She says this with a tight little smile.

“It might have been after you left. Christo was born in October of ’79. The twenty-fifth, I think.”

She thinks back, counting.

“I left during the winter—February, I think. End of February, yeah . . . Bloody hell—he must have been off with some slut while I was still there!”

Her voice quavers. I give her a bit of time to digest this. It seems to leave a bad taste in her mouth.

“I think I’d like some more tea, please.”

“Of course . . .”

Hen is on his feet in an instant. It’s strange—the girl opposite me seems to have shed years, and with them, her brittle confidence. She curls into herself like a hedgehog; underneath the suit, I realize, she is brutally thin. Hen sits down again, and three more teas are placed on the table, along with some more of the neon cakes.

“Did you suspect your husband of having a girlfriend on the side, Mrs. Hart?”

She grimaces.

“Well, now that you ask . . . I think I did wonder. But not a girlfriend, no—if you know what I mean . . .”

She looks at me significantly.

“I didn’t know anything then, did I? I thought maybe he didn’t like girls, you know?” A quick and brittle smile. “But he just didn’t like me.”

“So after—what?—four months of this . . . what was it that made you finally leave?”

“I’d have gone sooner, if I’d had anywhere to go. I started going to tent church meetings somewhere outside Lincoln—it was a place to escape, you know, once a week at least. Peter was one of the preachers there. An assistant. But . . . it was funny. I couldn’t have gone at all if old Mr. Janko hadn’t lent me his car. He could be nice, sometimes. Then I found out that the church was moving on, and I was really upset. It was the only good thing I had. I didn’t know what I would do without it. And I told old Mr. Janko one day . . . I couldn’t help it: I started crying and crying, and he said I should tell someone—at the church, I mean— how much it meant to me. It was funny, because it was almost like . . . he was telling me to ask them to help me . . . Get away, I mean. You know?
D’ you see what I mean? Like he felt sorry for me, in a way. So . . . that’s what I did.”

She shrugs again.

“I told Peter I was trapped in this awful marriage . . . and going off my head. And right away he offered me a job with the church. So I could go with them. I mean, there was nothing”—she blushes deeply—“funny going on. Nothing like that. He’s a reverend. He just wanted to help me. I worked for the church. That’s all it was—to start with.”

“You didn’t feel you could go back to your own family then?”

She shakes her head vehemently, clicks her tongue on her teeth.

“Not after what they spent on the wedding. I mean, I’ve got two sisters, and we all had to be got rid of—Dad never stopped moaning about it. No. They were only too glad to get rid of me.”

“I know that’s not the case,” I say softly, but she just shakes her head again and tuts.

I glance at Hen. He seems to be concentrating on the virulent green thing on his plate, his face registering polite horror.

“So Ivo and you—it wasn’t a real marriage at all?”

She shakes her head, her eyes briefly wide. I find it almost inconceivable that she isn’t telling the truth.

“The thing I thought was that he was, you know . . . queer.”

She lowers her voice until the last word comes out less than a whisper. She mouths it.

“I thought maybe I was like a smoke screen or something. But maybe he did have someone else, a woman he wasn’t allowed to marry or something . . . I don’t know.” She shrugs again. “If he has got a kid, I pity the poor bastard.”

We all sit in silence for a minute.

“Did you have any idea what Ivo and his father were arguing about?”

“No. It was never in front of me. I didn’t understand anything. I had no one to talk to—until Peter. It was the loneliest time of my life.”

She says it matter-of-factly. But I feel the first real sympathy I’ve felt for her.

“Thank you for telling us all this, Mrs. Hart. It’s . . . very helpful.” Hen has reduced the green cake to a small pile of crumbs. Good work, I think. Now he looks up.

“Did you ever meet Ivo’s cousin, Sandra Smith?”

“Sandra . . .”

She wrinkles her forehead in concentration.

“I might have met her at the wedding. I only met anyone at the wedding. They kept themselves to themselves after that. Why . . . Was it her?”

A feral look sweeps across her face but is gone as quickly as it came.

“I can’t believe he cheated on me! I should’ve realized, shouldn’t I? I’m so stupid!”

I shake my head.

“No, you’re not. You’re a better person for not realizing.”

That’s what I say to my clients. Hen looks at the table.

Our cups are empty, and our plates—except for mine, that is. Rena Hart, composure regained, looks disappointed.

“Didn’t you like yours?”

“Oh, I’m not much of a cake . . . person.”

“Mr. Lovell is sweet enough,” says Hen gravely.

Rena looks at him, then lets out a high, girlish laugh. It sounds rather strained.

We walk down the street with her, back to the church and the car. She tells us not to bother coming in to say good-bye to her husband, and disappears into the concrete bunker. From behind, she gives the disconcerting impression of a middle-aged woman.

“Well, congratulations to us.”

I look at Hen incredulously.

“Come on, Ray. We’ve just successfully concluded a case. We should be celebrating.”

I shrug. The photos of the young Rose are in my breast pocket. We
may have found Rose . . . No, we found Rena. I think Rose is gone for good.

Hen fiddles with the radio before switching it off.

“You’re disappointed, aren’t you? You can’t feel sorry for her anymore.”

“No, no!”

But it’s true. My character flaw—one of many, I realize—is that I tend to like people more when I haven’t met them.

“We haven’t finished, though, have we?”

I feel an overwhelming tiredness drop over me like a cloak. I mutter, almost to myself, “Do we believe her?”

“About the marriage—and the child? We’ll have to check. But for what it’s worth, yes, I did believe her.”

“So why do the Jankos tell people that Rose is Christo’s mother?”

“To hide the fact that someone else is his mother.”

We both think about that, as we drive past the sprawl of Monopoly houses and head for the bypass. Hen glances at me.

“But it may not matter much who Christo’s real mother is. Some local girl who didn’t want to know . . . It may be as simple as that.”

“Then again, it may not.”

“The important thing is to find out who is in the Black Patch. And then, hopefully, we’ll know if they have any relation to Ivo Janko— or not.”

Hen falls silent, but I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. We have to resist the temptation to assume that the answers to those two questions are one and the same. But my investigator’s instinct tells me that they are the same. Christo’s mother is in the Black Patch. It all fits. I let my head loll back against the headrest, the drone of tires sending me to sleep. We’re getting nearer: all we need is a name.

48.

Ray

It’s not that I wanted her to be dead. I can’t explain it. Well, that’s not strictly true; I don’t like being wrong, any more than anyone else. I’m not disappointed that she’s alive and well and happily married (we must suppose) to the scrubbed Welsh pastor. That she paints her nails frosted pink and has a laugh as unconvincing as her highlights.

Leon Wood sounds shocked, almost speechless.

“Alive? Are you sure?”

I wait for the sobs to subside, embarrassed but also strangely happy. It’s not often I get to deliver such good news.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lovell. ’Scuse me.”

“No, no, quite all right. But you have to understand—it was a shock for her as well. Finding out her mother has passed away. She’ll need some time to adjust.”

“So when can I see her?”

“That has to be up to her.”

“But where is she?”

“She has asked me not to pass on any details for the time being, while she gets used to the idea. She will get in touch with you when she’s ready.”

“Why?” he says, growing aggrieved. “I just want to know where she is. What’s she got to get used to?”

“Please don’t worry . . .”

“I’m not worried, Mr. Lovell. I’m not worried! I just want to see my dear daughter after seven years, and you are hindering me!”

There is much more of this sort of thing. I have to grit my teeth to keep my voice from rising, and, when tempted just to pass over name and address—what is the matter with people, for God’s sake?—and let them sort it out between them, remember Georgia.

Hen raises his eyebrows in sympathy when I finally put the phone down. “He will be delighted. Now, Andrea and I haven’t been entirely idle in your absence: we’ve got some new cases. Want to take a look?”

I stare at him.

“What about the case of who poisoned your partner—and why?” “Remind me who’s paying for that one.”

“What I want to know is, who is Christo’s mother? And what happened to the sister?”

Hen leans back; his chair gives a protesting squeak.

“So you think the sister gave birth to Christo, and they killed her . . . incest or something . . . and she’s in the Black Patch?”

“Well, it’s a possibility.”

“A lot easier to just fake a father, surely?”

“Well . . . what about the Janko name? And why did Ivo take off? It’s something to do with the Black Patch. I . . . know.”

He peers at me over his glasses. This is an affectation—he can’t see a thing without them.

“You don’t know that—because you still don’t know that he knows anything about the body. And there may be a simple explanation.”

“Well, when we have the simple explanation I will . . . leave it. Until then . . .”

I have kept the piece of paper with Lulu’s address written in Sandra’s childlike handwriting—I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I look at it often. I thought—I hoped—she might ring once I got out of
the hospital. Then I think of what Hen told me. How they’d discussed me. Perhaps I should have more pride than to pin my hopes on her. Then again, perhaps I should have less pride. She held my hand, after all. But I find reasons to wait until I am home before I ring her. I have plenty of other phone calls to make, and one fax I want to receive—to be sure.

To my surprise, she answers almost immediately. Somehow I thought she would be at work, and I was preparing to leave a message.

“You’re not at work?”

“No. How are you?”