A Death of Distinction Page 9

  Tom Barnett! Whoever would have believed it?

  She stood looking down at the rigidly disposed plants, aware of the soft smell of newly turned earth, of new life stirring all around her, of a blackbird singing on a flowering currant.

  Quite suddenly, the tears welled up unstoppably. She leaned against the corky bark of a nearby beech, sobbing until at last she could cry no more, the hard knot in her chest slowly dissolving.

  Finally, she blew her nose, smoothed back her hair and hurried on towards the admin block, anxious to find the women’s cloakroom before meeting Anthony. Her hands were filthy from grubbing out the ground elder. She’d never in her life faced anyone with her eyes red, her face blotchy, and she wasn’t going to start now.

  9

  The long, depressing street of villa-type brick houses was clotted with on-street parking, but Farrar found a space only four doors away from the house where Dex Davis’s mother lived.

  Dingy curtains and battered paintwork, a neglected plot of grass in front, roughly the dimensions of a grave – there could hardly have been a greater contrast to the house they’d previously visited, the house of the woman who’d supplanted her.

  They knocked on the front door. Twice. As Kite lifted his hand for the third time, a voice from inside called, ‘Round the back!’ Kite jerked his head at Farrar, signalling him to go down the passage between the houses, waiting while Farrar, always fastidious in the extreme, was picking his way along a broken and oil-stained concrete pathway, through a garden where only grass and dandelions survived, past a line of doubtful washing, a motorbike propped up on bricks, minus its front wheel, an overflowing dustbin and a week’s supply of empty milk bottles.

  Presently, Kite heard him shouting through the front-door letter box. ‘Have to go round the back, Sarge. Can’t open this.’

  The front door hadn’t been opened for years. Couldn’t be, the way it was blocked from behind with a log jam of discarded and broken objects, old shoes, and a coat rail so overburdened it had lost half its grip on reality and sunk lopsidedly towards the floor, making access to the upstairs something of an assault course.

  ‘Mrs Davis?’ Kite inquired, when he, too, had negotiated the hazards of the back entry and was in the kitchen.

  ‘No. Bridie O’Sullivan. I’ve reverted to me maiden name,’ replied the big, handsome woman with the cloud of dark hair and the rich Irish brogue grandly, making him wonder if there wasn’t something more than tea in the mug she was swigging from.

  He wouldn’t have blamed her. Something had to compensate for her wretched surroundings, and by all accounts her wretched life, though she hadn’t lost the sparkle in her blue eyes and her smile was as wide and generous as her hips. Breakfast was not yet over – a jar of Silver Shred with a knife sticking out of it stood on the cloth, next to a hacked-off white loaf and a plastic tub of marge, scored with the bread-knife serrations. Automatically, she reached for two more mugs and poured a black, evil-looking brew from the teapot, sugaring both with a heavy hand and pushing them across. Kite’s look defied Farrar to refuse.

  ‘We’re looking for your son, Dex, Mrs –’

  ‘Bridie,’ she plugged the hesitation. ‘What’s he done this time?’

  ‘Nothing so far as we know, yet. Is he living here?’

  ‘Only because he’s nowhere better to go.’

  ‘Short of money, is he?’

  She laughed.

  ‘Who’s he associating with these days?’

  ‘It’s no use asking me these sort of questions. I don’t have any answers.’ Her eyes were suddenly empty as a rain-washed Irish sky. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘Just a word in connection with that bomb that went off at the Conyhall Young Offenders’ Institution.’

  ‘The bomb that killed the governor?’ She was jerked into mobility, drawing herself upright on the kitchen chair. ‘No! He’s a terrible little toerag, so he is, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that, not Dex!’ But he read fear and uncertainty in her voice.

  ‘We only want to talk to him, m’duck.’

  ‘Then you’ve struck lucky, haven’t you? For that’s his car just pulled up outside. Oh, Jesus. What have I ever done to deserve this?’

  Bridie sank her head in her hands, banging her elbows on the table in frustration, but all it did was to make her keen with pain as she struck her funny-bone and the nerve sent excruciating tingles down her arm and hand.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ demanded the youth who shambled through the door.

  The pain in her arm had receded, leaving only numbness, but the other pain, the one clutching her heart, was still there. She sat where she was, looked sorrowingly at the son who’d caused her nothing but trouble for the last six or seven years, and decided she’d had enough of what life decided to throw at her. Sure, she’d go on fighting. She hadn’t been born Irish for nothing. But this time she was going to fight for herself.

  ‘You’ve got visitors,’ she said.

  If Dex Davis resembled either parent, it wasn’t his mother, except that he was big. Muscular. Dangerous. A close-cropped head, a hard face devoid of expression, empty grey eyes, jaws moving rhythmically on a piece of gum. Leather jacket. Ironmongery in his ears. Washed-out black T-shirt, the mandatory skin-tight jeans and Doc Martens. A hard man in his own opinion.

  He didn’t frighten either policeman.

  He looked older than his years, old with more knowledge of the seamy side of life than his age warranted. Nobody with sense would have trusted him with a bag of boiled sweets, let alone bought a used car from him. Life had already stamped on him what he was to become, a hopeless case, destined to spend the best part of his life under lock and key, the rest of it in the dubious activity that was to put him there.

  ‘Derek Davis?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Kite, and this is Detective Constable Farrar. We’d like a word.’

  ‘What about? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, Derek. But for starters, how long have you had the motor?’ Farrar indicated the car drawn into the kerb. It wasn’t new – a red, H-reg Orion – but if Dex could afford to buy and run that, legit, then Farrar was looking to him for a bit of advice.

  Dex shrugged. ‘Week or two.’

  ‘Must’ve cost you.’

  ‘Got it cheap, off of one of me mates, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, we know mates like yours, sunshine,’ Kite said. ‘Get you anything you want, can’t they? Dodgy, is it? Nicked?’

  ‘No, it bloody isn’t,. Paying for it on the knock, if you must know.’

  ‘And you on the dole? Come again.’

  ‘Dunno what you’re on about,’ Dex answered, taking refuge in playing stupid.

  ‘We’re on about that bomb that went off at Conyhall. And what you know about it.’

  His expression didn’t change. His jaws masticated. But Kite was interested to see that a light sweat broke out on his forehead. ‘Hey, man. You can’t pin that on me.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about it.’ Dex made a show of indifference and turned as if to go upstairs.

  ‘Don’t go, Derek.’

  He slouched into a chair. ‘Told you, I’d nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind coming down to the station, nice and quiet, like a good lad, and telling that to our inspector.’

  ‘Hey, hey!’

  ‘Get your coat on. Come on, don’t hang about.’

  ‘I tell you, I dunno –’ Farrar took hold of his arm. He wasn’t such a ponce as you’d think. Dex began to look hunted. ‘Ma?’

  ‘Don’t look at me, you daft little bugger, you’re only getting what you asked for. I’ve done with you, so I have!’ And Bridie, who’d seen off more policemen, probation officers and social workers in her time than she could count, sat immovable in her chair, while Farrar collared her son out to the waiting police car.

  Halfway to the door, Kite tu
rned back. ‘Thanks for the tea, Bridie, and good luck to you. Here,’ he added, seeing the tears now spilling from her eyes and rolling down her cheeks, ‘don’t let him get you down, m’duck, he’s not worth it.’

  ‘And who the hell are you to say he’s not worth it?’ she rounded on him, swiping at the tears, blue eyes flashing, Irish temper up. ‘I’ll thank you not to talk about my son as if he was rubbish – and you harm a hair of his head and I’ll have your guts for garters, so I will – and don’t think I’m not capable of it.’ She picked up the smeary bread knife from the table and brandished it. ‘You get out of my house!’

  Kite got. That she was capable of anything, he didn’t doubt for a minute, and there were other parts of his anatomy that he valued, even more immediately accessible than his guts.

  The side ward where Flora had been was now occupied by an old lady with a broken hip, but although she was physically not there, Marc couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  She haunted his dreams and, when he least expected it, his waking hours. In the operating theatre, checking the technical equipment, he would see the sweet pale face, with its tremulous smile; the rich hair tumbling over her shoulders after the bandages had been removed, shining like gold when the sunlight caught it, making him shiver when he thought what it would be like to run his fingers through it and feel its silky softness. His brain and his hands worked on autopilot: when his arms were round a patient, lifting them on to a trolley, it was Flora’s soft body he felt; when he prepared anyone for surgery, squeezing their arm for the needle, he was squeezing the plump creamy flesh of her bare arms and seeing the swell of her breasts under the white silk nightdress. He was disgusted with himself at the gross impulses he felt, yet excited.

  This was all so totally unexpected. The last thing he wanted was to become involved with anybody at the moment yet, one way or another, he had to see her. She’d be glad for them to meet again, he was sure of that. While she was still at the hospital, he’d made it in his way to pop into her room for a few minutes several times a day, though he’d no valid reason to be there, other than to see her, and she’d thanked him gravely and told him his little visits made the time pass less slowly. He felt there was an instinctive understanding between them. He could talk to her as he’d never talked to anyone else: when he’d told her about the accident to June and Frank – though he hadn’t spoken of his shattering discovery that they hadn’t been his real parents – her eyes had filled with sympathetic tears.

  She’d looked so lost, so in need of being cared for. She made him feel manly and protective. The question of how best to get in touch with her and help her was quickly becoming an obsession with him, the way things did, the way it had become an overriding need with him to find his mother ...

  Waiting for Avril Kitchin outside the coffee shop, the day after he’d spoken to her in there, seeing her approach from a distance, he had thought again how dreary and peasant-like she appeared, with the same shopping bag dangling from her arm, the same look of frowning doggedness on the face under the headscarf.

  And again, he couldn’t help noticing the heaviness of her features, how grudging her greeting was, how guarded. She still wasn’t sure of him, what his motives really were, how far to trust him, and he knew he was going to have to tread softly.

  ‘I thought we’d go somewhere else, it’s not very private in there,’ he said, indicating the steamy café behind him with its beige Formica-topped tables set too close together. He felt rather sick with apprehension at what this coming meeting was to reveal, his stomach was tied in knots, and he didn’t think he could face the smell of hamburger.

  ‘All right.’ She seemed indifferent as to where they went. ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘I thought the pub over there. It seems quiet.’

  He realized immediately they entered the Crown and Anchor that it was quiet because it was a pub of the spit-and-sawdust variety, not having much to offer at this time of day, either in the way of comfort or even a decent selection of bar food. He could see it might have a kind of welcome for some in the evening, when all the lamps were lit and the juke box going and people were talking and playing darts and noisily enjoying themselves, but at midday it was deserted, stale with the aftermath of cigarette smoke and beer. Christmas decorations, though it was now the middle of January, still hung in festoons from the ceiling, a pair of dispirited cardboard Santas stood pointlessly at either end of the bar, dubiously regarding the few uninteresting sandwiches of debatable age which were displayed there. Marc and Avril agreed on cheese, and Marc ordered a lager for himself, though Avril asked for coffee. The barman raised his eyebrows and said he’d see what he could do, much as if he’d been asked for champagne cocktails, or a bottle of Château Lafitte.

  They carried their food across to a comer where two slippery vinyl-covered banquette seats met, with an indifferently wiped table between them. ‘You needn’t finish them if you don’t want,’ Marc said, pushing his sandwiches away after a few bites. ‘Though I don’t know what else I could get you, except maybe a bag of crisps.’

  ‘They’re all right. I’ve eaten worse,’ she replied ungraciously, working her way through stale-tasting cheese between doughy slabs of bread with the same concentration she’d given to the Danish pastry in the coffee shop. The consumption of food was evidently a matter of serious intent to Avril Kitchin. He sat back and waited with mounting impatience, guessing he wouldn’t get anything out of her until she’d finished eating.

  As soon as she’d demolished the last crumb, he asked, ‘Well, what happened, what did she say?’

  Avril looked round for her coffee, which was not yet forthcoming, before answering. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What d’you mean – not sure? You did speak to her?’

  He leaned across and took hold of her plump wrist, not realizing he might be hurting her until she angrily pulled her hand away. ‘Yes, I did. But I meant I’m still not sure whether it’s a good idea or not. She’s beginning to make a life for herself, she’s learning –’

  ‘Where does she live?’ he interrupted roughly.

  ‘She’s staying with me. I’ve a flat in Branxmore.’

  ‘Branxmore!’ He stared at her, feeling the blood rush to his head.

  Avril Kitchin looked offended. ‘It’s not a very select area, I know, but it’s not that bad! I can think of worse places than Coltmore Road.’

  ‘It’s not that, it’s just that I live in Branxmore myself,’ Marc said, forcing himself to be calm. He could hardly take it in. She’d been living in Branxmore, all the time! Three or four streets away from where he himself lived, only just around the corner, you might say. He could actually have passed her in the street, they might even have stood next to each other at the supermarket checkout, or in the launderette. Though he felt, somehow, he would instinctively have known her if they’d met, even though she must have changed considerably, and the only photo he had to fix her image in his mind was the blurred and grainy newspaper cutting.

  The coffee came, a predictably grey, watery-looking substance, some of which had slopped into the saucer. At least it appeared to be hot, judging by the steam rising from the cup. The landlord took away their plates, unsurprised by Marc’s unconsumed sandwiches.

  Avril sipped the scalding liquid and then she said slowly, reluctantly, as if she’d rather not be saying it, ‘She wants you to come round, on Wednesday night if you can manage, for coffee, and something to eat. It won’t be much, just a snack.’ She watched his face, the beginnings of his smile, and her own expression hardened. She said roughly, ‘I have to tell you, it wasn’t my idea.’

  He didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him what this woman thought or said. It was his mother who’d invited him – his mother! She had asked to see him! He was going to see her at last, face to face, he hadn’t had to plead, something he’d been very afraid of having to do. He said, doing his best to conceal his fierce elation, forcing himself to use a more humble tone than he wanted
to, ‘Won’t you tell me something about her first, how she came to be living with you?’

  ‘No. If she wants to tell you, she’ll tell you herself. But I warn you, go easy on her. She’s been through a lot.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she contradicted flatly. ‘Nobody does, who hasn’t experienced it.’ He knew, without her saying it, that it had been an experience Avril Kitchin had shared.

  They left the pub, and most of the coffee even Avril hadn’t been able to drink. Dizzy with euphoria, Marc had watched her clump sturdily away into the January afternoon in her moon boots, her shopping bag over her arm.

  10

  When Dex Davis saw that the inspector sitting on the edge of the table in the interview room and waiting to question him was only a woman, a near-redhead with a tasty figure and long legs, he visibly perked up. He knew how to treat women like her, you just had to give them the eye, it was going to be a doddle. Wasn’t a tart yet he hadn’t been able to twist round his little finger. His sisters had always stuck up for him, sworn black was white, lied like the clappers to get him out of trouble if he’d sweet-talked them. And up to now he’d only ever had to smile at his mother and say he was sorry and he’d been all right.

  Twenty minutes later, he was sweating. A right cow, this one. Nearly as bad as that butch screw, Reynolds, at Conyhall. Even worse than that Kite, who was sitting with her.

  After two hours, eyes narrowed, he knew he wasn’t going to get away with it, and was rapidly calculating what his chances were, while automatically repeating that he’d had nothing to do with the bombing.

  Abigail sighed. ‘Don’t mess me about, Derek. You swear you’re going to get your own back on the governor – and then as soon as you’re outside, he cops it! And you expect us to believe you’d nothing to do with it?’