The Murder Room (32 page)

The elderly driver didn't reply. Perhaps he was tired of passengers exhorting him to speed when speed wasn't possible.

The lights were against them and at Hampstead they joined a long queue of vans and taxis crawling southwards towards Baker Street and the West End. She sat bolt upright, clutching her handbag, willing herself to be calm and patient since agitation was useless. The driver was doing the best he could.

When they reached the Marylebone Road she leaned forward and said, “If it's difficult to get to the church because of the one-way, you can leave me at the end of Margaret Street.”

All he replied was, “I can get you to the church all right.”

Five minutes later he did. She said, “I'm just collecting someone. Will you wait a moment please, or would you like me to pay now?”

“That's all right,” he said. “I'll wait.”

She had been horrified at the sum showing on the meter. If it cost as much getting back, she would have to get to the bank next day.

She passed through the small, unpromising courtyard and pushed open the door. She had first come to All Saints a year ago when Jennifer had sent her a book token for Christmas and she had bought Simon Jenkins's
England's Thousand Best Churches.
She had decided to visit all his London choices but, because of the distances, progress had been slow. But the quest had opened her eyes to a new dimension of London life and an architectural and historical heritage previously unvisited.

Even in this hour of concentrated anxiety, with the taxi fare inexorably mounting and the possibility that Ryan wouldn't have waited, the gloriously adorned interior imposed its moment of astonished quietude. From floor to roof no part of it had been left undecorated. The walls gleamed with mosaics and murals and the great reredos with its row of painted saints drew the eye towards the glory of the high altar. On her first visit, her response to this ornate contrivance had been uncertain, amazement rather than reverence. It was only on a second visit that she had felt at home. She was used to seeing it during High Mass, the robed priests moving ceremoniously before the high altar, the soaring voices of the choir rising with the waves of pungent incense. Now, as the door closed grindingly behind her, the quiet air and the serried rows of empty chairs imparted a more subtle mystery. Somewhere, she supposed, there must be a custodian but none was visible. Two nuns were seated in the front row before the statue of the Virgin and a few candles burned steadily, not flickering as she closed the door.

She saw Ryan almost immediately. He was seated at the back and came forward at once to join her. Her heart leapt with relief. She said, “I've got a cab waiting. We'll go straight home.”

“But I'm hungry, Mrs. Tally. I'm feeling faint. Can't we have burgers?” His tone had become infantile, a childish whine.

Oh dear,
she thought,
those dreadful burgers!
Occasionally he would bring them for his lunch and heat them up under the grill. Their rich onion smell lingered for too long. But he did indeed look faint and the omelette she had planned to cook for him probably wasn't what he needed.

The prospect of a quick meal immediately revived him. Opening the cab door for her, he called to the driver with cocky assurance, “The nearest burger bar will do us fine, mate. Make it quick.”

They were there within minutes and she paid off the cab, tipping an extra pound. Inside she gave Ryan a £5 note so that he could stand in line and get what he wanted and a coffee for herself. He came back with a double cheeseburger and a large milk shake, and then returned for her coffee. They settled down at a seat as far as possible from the window. He seized the hamburger and began cramming it into his mouth.

She said, “Were you all right in the church? Did you like it?”

He shrugged. “It was OK. Weird. They've got the same joss-sticks we've got in the squat.”

“You mean the incense?”

“One of the girls in the squat, Mamie, used to light the joss-sticks and then we sat in the dark and she'd get in touch with the dead.”

“She couldn't do that, Ryan. We can't speak to the dead.”

“Well, she could. She spoke to my dad. She told me things she wouldn't have known if she hadn't spoken to Dad.”

“But she lived with you in the squat, Ryan. She must have known things about you and about your family. And some things she told you were probably lucky guesses.”

“No,” he said. “She spoke to my dad. Can I go back for another shake?”

There was no problem in hailing a taxi for the return journey. It was only then that Ryan asked about the murder. She gave him the facts as simply as she could, not dwelling on the horror of the discovery and giving him none of the details.

She said, “We have a team from New Scotland Yard investigating, Commander Dalgliesh and three assistants. They'll want to talk to you, Ryan. Obviously you must answer their questions honestly. We all need to get this terrible mystery cleared up.”

“And the Major? He's OK, you said?”

“Yes. He's fine. The head wound bled a lot but it really wasn't serious. But it could've been, Ryan. Why on earth did you lose your temper like that?”

“He gave me aggravation, didn't he?”

He turned to stare resolutely out the window and Tally thought it prudent to say nothing more. She was surprised that he showed so little curiosity about Dr. Neville's death. But the press accounts, so far, had been short and ambiguous. He was probably too concerned about his attack on the Major to care about Dr. Neville.

She paid off the taxi, horrified at the total cost, and again added an extra pound as tip. The driver seemed satisfied. She and Ryan ducked under the barrier and walked in silence to the house.

Inspector Tarrant and Sergeant Benton-Smith were coming out of the museum. The Inspector said, “So you found Ryan, Mrs. Clutton. Jolly good. We've some questions for you, young man. The Sergeant and I are off to the station. You better come with us. It won't take long.”

Tally said quickly, “Couldn't you talk to Ryan in the cottage? I could leave you alone in the sitting-room.” She nearly committed the folly of offering him coffee as an inducement.

Ryan's eyes shifted from her to the Inspector. “Are you arresting me then?”

“No, just taking you to the station for a chat. We've got some things to clear up. You can call it helping the police with their inquiries.”

Ryan found some spirit. “Oh yeah? I know what that means. I want a brief.”

“You're not a juvenile, are you?”

The Inspector's voice was suddenly sharp. Tally guessed that dealing with juveniles would be difficult and time-consuming. It wasn't a prospect the police would relish.

“No. I'm nearly eighteen.”

“That's a relief. You can have a brief if you want one. We've got ‘em on call. Or you could phone a friend.”

“All right. I'll phone the Major.”

“That forgiving chap? OK, you can ring him from the station.”

Ryan departed with them willingly enough, even with a slight swagger. Tally suspected that he was prepared to enjoy his period of notoriety. She could understand why the police hadn't wanted to question him in the cottage. Even if she left them alone, she would be too close for comfort. She was involved in this mystery, possibly even a suspect. They wanted to talk to Ryan in complete privacy. With a sinking of the heart she had no doubt they would get from him what they wanted.

17

Kate wasn't surprised that Dalgliesh was to go with her to interview David Wilkins. It was after all necessary; only AD could identify him. Wilkins had been in the museum the week before the Dupayne murder and had admitted to a grievance against the museum. However unlikely a suspect, he had to be seen. And one never knew what part of an investigation AD might decide to take a personal hand in. He was, after all, a poet with a writer's interest in the fabric of other lives. His poetry was a mystery to her. The man who had produced
A Case to Answer and Other Poems
bore no relation to the senior detective she served under with a passionate commitment. She could recognize some of his moods, feared his occasional if quiet criticism, rejoiced to know that she was a valued member of his team, but she didn't know him. And she had long learned first to discipline, and finally to put aside, any hope of his love. Someone else, she suspected, now had that. She, Kate, had always believed in limiting ambition to what was achievable. She told herself that if AD were to be lucky in love, she would be glad for him, but she was surprised and a little disturbed by the vehement resentment she felt against Emma Lavenham. Couldn't the woman see what she was doing to him?

They walked the last fifty yards in silence through the thin drizzle. Goldthorpe Road was a terrace of late Victorian stuccoed houses running off the north end of Ladbroke Grove. No doubt these solid monuments to nineteenth-century domestic aspirations would one day be acquired, upgraded, converted into expensive flats and priced out of reach of all but two salaried professionals with an eye for a street on its way up. But now decades of neglect had sunk the terrace into decrepitude. The cracked walls were grimed with years of London dirt, the stucco had fallen in lumps from the porticoes, revealing the bricks beneath, and paint was flaking from the front doors. It didn't need the racks of doorbells to see that this was a street of multi-occupancy, but it was strangely, even ominously, quiet as if the inhabitants, aware of some impending contagion, had stolen away in the night.

The Wilkinses' flat, 15A, was in the basement. Thin curtains, drooping in the middle, hung from the single window. The latch on the iron gate was broken and the gate kept shut by a wire clothes hanger twisted into a loop. Dalgliesh raised this and he and Kate went down the stone steps to the basement area. Some effort had been made to sweep it but there was still a moist heap of debris—cigarette packets, fragments of newspaper, crumpled brown bags and a filthy handkerchief—blown into the corner by the wind. The door was to the left where the pavement arched over the area, making the entry invisible from the road. The number 15A was crudely painted in white on the wall and Kate saw that there were two locks, a Yale and a security one below. Beside the door was a green plastic pot containing a geranium. The stem was woody, the few leaves were dry and brown and the single pink flower on its etiolated stem was as small as a daisy. How, Kate wondered, could anyone have expected it to flourish without sun?

Their arrival had been noticed. Glancing to her right, Kate saw the edge of the curtains twitch. She rang and they waited. Looking at Dalgliesh, Kate saw that he was gazing upwards at the railings, his face expressionless. The street lamp shining through the shafts of drizzle picked out the taut line of the jaw and planes of the face.
Oh God,
she thought,
he looks tired to death.

There was still no reply, and after a minute she rang again. This time the door was cautiously opened. Above the chain a pair of frightened eyes met hers.

Kate said, “Is Mr. David Wilkins at home? We want to have a word with him. We're from the police.”

She had tried to sound unfrightening while realizing that the effort was futile. A visit from the police is seldom good news and in this street it was probably a harbinger of catastrophe.

The chain was still in place. The girl's voice said, “Is it about the rent? Davie's seeing to it. He's not here now, he's at the chemist's picking up his prescription.”

Kate said, “It's nothing to do with the rent. We're making inquiries about a case and we think Mr. Wilkins may be able to help us with some information.”

And that was hardly more reassuring. Everyone knew what was meant by helping the police with their inquiries. The gap in the door widened until the chain was stretched to its full extent.

Dalgliesh turned and said, “Are you Mrs. Michelle Wilkins?” She nodded and he went on, “We won't keep your husband long. We're not even sure that he can help us but we have to try. If he's expected back soon, perhaps we could wait.”

Of course we could wait, thought Kate. Inside or outside, we could wait. But why this pussyfooting?

And now the chain was removed. They saw a thin young woman who looked little more than sixteen. The strands of light brown hair hung each side of a pale narrow face in which the anxious eyes looked into Kate's for a moment of mute appeal. She was wearing the ubiquitous blue jeans, grubby trainers and a man's pullover. She didn't speak and they followed her down a narrow passage, easing their way past a folding pram. Ahead a door to the bathroom was open giving a view of an old-fashioned WC with a high cistern and hanging chain. At the base of the wash-basin there was a heap of towels and linen pushed against the wall.

Michelle Wilkins stood back and motioned them through to a door on the right. The narrow room ran the whole width of the house. There were two doors in the rear wall, both standing wide open. One led to a cluttered kitchen, the other to what was obviously the bedroom. A railed cot and a double divan took up almost the whole space under the single window. The bed was unmade, the pillows ruffled and the duvet slipping off to expose a rumpled undersheet.

The sitting-room was furnished only with a square table with four upright wooden chairs, a battered sofa covered with a throw in Indian cotton, a pine chest of drawers and a large television set beside the gas fire. Kate, in her years with the Met, had been in grubbier, more depressing rooms. They seldom worried her, but now she felt what she so rarely did, a moment of discomfort, even of embarrassment. What would she feel if the police arrived unannounced, requesting or demanding admission to her flat? It would be immaculate, why shouldn't it be? There was no one there to make it untidy but herself. Even so, the intrusion would be insupportable. She and Dalgliesh needed to be here, but it was still an intrusion.