Sharp scratch, p.11
Sharp Scratch, page 11
Then the organ struck up a wandering introit and the priest and an altar boy in a nylon surplice processed up the aisle. Behind them came a lanky middle-aged man with bowed shoulders, metal-rimmed glasses and longish greying hair. That had to be Phil. Holding his hand was Tim, wiping his face with the cuffs of his jumper.
A series of prayers and responses were chanted. Candles were lit, the censer was swung, a tinkling bell rung. The ritual meant nothing to Lorraine and she spent most of the service worrying that she shouldn’t have come. At last the final amens were muttered and genuflections made. Then with a click and squeak an ancient PA system hummed on. Suddenly Elvis Costello’s ‘Good Year for the Roses’ filled the air. It was a bit tinny but somehow just right, evoking a tumble of images of Rose’s lipstick prints and cups of cold coffee. To Lorraine’s embarrassment she began to sniffle. She wished she still had Rose’s fancy hanky to weep into. Lacking even a paper tissue to wipe her nose, she forced back her tears.
While the priest gave a final benediction, she found herself whispering her own prayer. ‘God bless you, Rose,’ she muttered into clasped hands. ‘I won’t forget you. And I promise I won’t stop searching till I’ve found out who stole your life.’
At the exit the priest firmly blocked her way, insisting she give her condolences to the widower. Next door, in the parish hall, she swerved away from a bereft-looking couple whom she thought might be Phil’s parents. Instead, she headed for the food and helped herself to a baked custard tart and cup of strong tea.
Phil Cavanagh stood a few feet away. Poor bloke, he was having trouble stirring his tea, never mind doing justice to the refreshments. She introduced herself and felt his misery radiating like static.
‘You look upset. Unlike some,’ he said. Close up, he had an intelligent, beaky face, though grief left him looking dazed.
She nodded. ‘It’s impossible to believe.’
From nowhere, his son appeared, twining his skinny arm around his dad’s trouser leg.
‘Hi, Tim,’ she said, sounding horribly over-bright.
‘Hullo,’ he said in a tiny voice, not meeting her eye.
‘Do you want a custard tart? They’re really nice.’
He looked up at the table and said listlessly, ‘Can I have a spoon and dig out the custard?’
‘Course you can. Here’s a chair to sit on.’
Once Tim was settled Phil hovered closer. ‘Rose talked about you. She seemed to like you.’ He fixed intense, swollen eyes on her.
She lowered her voice to speak. ‘I feel terrible. On that last day she wanted to speak to me. Something was on her mind.’
He pushed a strand of greasy hair behind his ear and frowned. ‘Let’s find somewhere private.’ He gestured to the woman she’d marked as his mother, who bustled over to Tim, then Lorraine followed Phil into an empty side room where tatty hymnals and Christmas decorations were gathering dust. Phil stood against a table and offered her a cigarette. When she refused, he lit one himself with shaking fingers.
‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.
‘Getting by, I suppose. They’re letting me work from home while I sort things out.’
‘Good, good. And how’s Tim?’
‘OK. Sort of. A few issues. A fellow at your place, Doctor Andrews, is going to see him.’
She puzzled over the unfamiliar name.
‘Child, you know, psychology. Just to – it’s all a bit beyond me.’
So that was what Diaz had meant about Tim getting extra help.
‘Anyway, you’re right,’ Phil said. ‘Rose was preoccupied. Not herself for a while.’
‘For a while?’
‘From round Christmas, I’d say. A couple of months.’
Lorraine frowned. At that time, she’d been immersed in heavy reading for the psychometrics course – but yes, it was true, Rose had been rather distant.
‘Any idea why?’
He pulled on his cigarette as if it were oxygen and tapped the ash onto a dead cactus.
‘I did wonder. She said this guy McClung had pestered her. But then she laughed about it. Called it a grown-up crush.’
Mike and Rose? It definitely sounded like one of those embarrassing mid-life infatuations.
Phil peered at the grimy window, weighing something up.
‘And yet, the only time she was really upset was the night before – it happened. I came home early and she was on the phone and was incredibly emotional, really having a go at someone. You remember how gentle she was?’
She nodded. However much turmoil she may have felt inside, Rose had always presented her exterior as serenely unflustered.
‘I told that inspector all about it but he tried to twist my words. Said it must have been this Mike. I don’t think it was. I could hear her repeating a name. I went to the door and listened. The bastard’s name was Chris or Christian or something like that.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. I was so annoyed I slammed the door so she’d hear me. She rang off straight away.’
‘Chris? I’ll ask around.’ The name meant nothing to her. Now Phil was watching her, his pale eyes stunned with pain.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘Please. Call round this afternoon if you can. With Jasmine. Honestly, Lorraine, it would be worth a dozen psychology sessions to Tim. My parents have to go back to Yorkshire pretty soon. They’ll be back whenever we get permission for the official funeral. Say, three o’clock?’
She inwardly yelled at herself to resist. She was fast running out of time to gen up on the course. It was no use. She felt his pain.
‘Fine,’ she said with a weak smile. ‘See you later, then.’
By three o’clock Lorraine was ringing Phil’s doorbell with Jas in tow, fresh from her mum’s. Rose’s home was a three-storey townhouse on a housing estate where the bricks were so new they glowed bright orange. The frontage was as showy as a doll’s house with fake Georgian pilasters and pediment, though Rose had restrained herself from the wishing wells and window boxes some of her neighbours had indulged in. Opening the door, Phil looked even greyer than before, though his tobacco-stained smile showed he was genuinely pleased to see them. She envied Jasmine, who ran past the adults straight to Tim and launched into an interrogation about his toys.
While Phil fetched coffee, she tried to get comfortable on the slippery leather Chesterfield. The room was saturated with Rose’s presence. Vases of dried flowers stood in the cold fireplace and on the bookshelves. There were photographs too, endless pictures of Tim from baby to shy little boy.
Phil returned with surprisingly nice coffee made with hot milk. She sipped it slowly. Phil heaved himself into an armchair and stirred his coffee thoughtfully before he spoke.
‘Look, I know everyone probably thinks I’m to blame. But I did try. It might not have been the easiest of marriages, but since Tim came along Rose was a lot happier.’
Lorraine nodded, wondering what exactly had been wrong with their marriage.
‘You had a gorgeous wedding,’ she said, and pointed to a photo in a silver frame. She wasn’t remotely into weddings herself, but anyone could tell from the outfits that it was a very fancy do. Rose wore a seventies frock with mutton-chop sleeves, her head crowned with a floppy lacy hat. Phil had sported long brown hair and a kipper tie. Both looked embarrassed and awkward.
‘The photographer was brilliant,’ he said. ‘It was one of the unhappiest days of Rose’s life. She’d fallen out with her chief bridesmaid, who didn’t even turn up. The whole day was overshadowed by Julie’s non-appearance.’
Lorraine sat forward and tried to mirror Phil’s gestures, hoping he’d keep talking.
‘Rose didn’t strike me as quarrelsome,’ she said gently.
He tensed and looked away. ‘She had her frustrations. Like I said, she put up with things – with me – and then got irritated. But she would never have risked Tim’s happiness.’
‘Did she have any other close friends?’
‘She met a few people at keep-fit but they were on and off. She never spoke to Julie again. I wanted to meet you but Rose didn’t like mixing work with leisure time. I assumed you were her new best friend, what with all the nights out you had.’
Lorraine hesitated for barely a moment. ‘Phil, I’m really sorry, but I haven’t ever had a night out with Rose.’
Phil grasped the arms of his chair and swallowed hard. ‘I’m not totally surprised. The police asked me if she was seeing another man.’ He raked bony fingers through his hair. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you another favour. You can always say no. My brother is coming to stay next weekend and I’d like to give him the back bedroom. It’s just that Rose used it as a sort of – well, her own room. It’s full of her things – clothes, face cream, you know. Do you think you could take it all away?’
She was genuinely lost for words.
‘I mean, feel free to take anything you want for yourself. I know she’d want that. She doesn’t have any family left. The Oxfam on the high street has a back porch where you can leave it all. It’s just – she’s not coming back, so what’s the point?’
He stood up and reluctantly she followed him. ‘But surely you want to keep—’
‘I can’t bear to touch her things myself. I’ve left some bin bags up there. And you and her were both similar—’ His fingers clumsily traced the invisible silhouette of a woman’s figure in the air.
Embarrassed, she trailed after him, towards where the children were prancing around in a front bedroom. On the threshold to Rose’s room, Phil backed away downstairs.
‘The police,’ she called out after him. ‘They won’t mind?’
Over his shoulder he mumbled, ‘They took everything they wanted.’
Walking into Rose’s room she had the oddest feeling of déjà vu, as if she’d visited the place before. A moment later she recognised it from a page in last year’s Laura Ashley catalogue, immaculately recreated by Rose. It was all there: the ruffled Austrian blinds, pink rosy wallpaper and frilly mob-cap lamps. She sank down on the floral bedspread and sadness overcame her, that all this artful endeavour had failed to keep death from Rose’s door.
Think, you idiot, she told herself at last. This is the room of your friend who was murdered last week by an unknown colleague. Rose and Phil no longer shared a bedroom. Their marriage was unhappy. If Rose kept any secrets they might still be right here. When Rose retreated into this private space, who was she?
She studied her surroundings and concluded that Rose was a romantic, a seeker of rose-tinted scenarios, a deeply feminine woman. Judging by the abundance of photos, Tim fulfilled her maternal desires, but Phil’s absence confirmed that he didn’t feature in her romantic yearnings. She found the lingerie drawer but discovered no basques or suspenders, only neatly folded pink and white St Michael’s underwear. Had Phil been trying to suggest that she and Rose had similar figures? Perhaps, and they were both fair-haired, but beyond that they were polar opposites. Rose would never have touched peroxide. And the thought of wearing Rose’s prim underwear was out of the question. She tipped the drawer’s contents into a bin bag.
The paperbacks on the shelves were also the opposite to her own tastes. The books were all romantically inclined women’s fiction: The Mists of Avalon, The Thorn Birds, and a few Victoria Holts and Georgette Heyers. Even if Lorraine didn’t like the idea, Doctor Lehman had said that women on the whole tested as slightly more tender-hearted, neurotic and submissive than men. So Rose wasn’t unusual, just far closer to the feminine norm than herself. And in that phone call overheard by Phil, and Rose’s outburst in the fog, she had proved herself to be enmeshed in secrets. So what did Rose want beyond a frilly pink boudoir?
Lorraine stuffed four bags with the detritus of an extinguished life: Avon powder puff talc, bath cubes, St Michael make-up and Camay soaps. Her clothes smelt of citrusy Aqua Manda and occasionally Lorraine fancied she caught the odour of ancient cardboard from the medical records basement. She picked up an expensive hairbrush still tangled with golden hair. Death cast its taint over even the most prosaic of objects.
Across the landing the radio blared out Alan Freeman’s weekly charts for his pop-pickers. She could hear Jasmine bossily making a tape recording of her favourite songs. So it was to the accompaniment of Annie Lennox singing ‘Sweet dreams are made of this …’ that she found the item that made her freeze in her tracks. At the very back of the wardrobe was a white plastic handbag containing tissues and half a packet of Polo mints. Deep inside a zipped compartment was a key ring. It held two keys, a Yale door key, blackened by time, and a smaller iron mortice key. Lorraine raised it to the light and read ‘Room 7’ written in black ink on the ancient cardboard label. Below the number was a name written in the same old-fashioned curly italics but missing its final few letters. The Wil-something. The Willows or Williamses, perhaps? The two keys weighed cold and surprisingly heavy in her hand.
So did they belong to the Williamses’ family house, or the Willows Nursing Home, or maybe even the Wilton Hotel? She had a vision of a seedy hotel paid for by the hour, the sort of place she presumed was used by prostitutes or married philanderers. Whatever rooms the keys unlocked, she was sure Rose had hidden them away for a reason. The white handbag went into the charity bag but she put the key ring inside her jacket pocket. Maybe if she found the Wil-something Hotel she could look at the register and identify Rose’s murderer. And if she did that fast enough, maybe Diaz would trade the information for the return of her Filofax.
Downstairs, Phil was smoking at the kitchen table, an unread copy of The Observer open before him.
‘It might be nothing, but I found this.’ She laid the key ring on the pine table.
He inspected it. ‘God, how sordid. A hotel bedroom key. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘I’m wondering if I should look for a Chris Williams?’
He studied the fob closely. ‘If it even says Williams? It’s a really tatty label, given how it’s partly torn away.’
‘Probably from the NHS then,’ she joked weakly. ‘I’d like to try a few keyholes, if that’s OK.’
Phil shrugged. ‘Keep it quiet, will you? I’d rather nothing like this goes any further. Whatever gets into the papers might be read by Tim one day.’
‘Of course.’ Then she added, ‘You mean from the police, too?’
Phil hesitated. ‘Well, they didn’t think it was important, did they? See how you get on first.’
‘OK.’
‘The kids’ teacher mentioned you’re looking for a new childminder.’
Thanks a million, Mrs Dearden, she thought. When she didn’t reply he made a proposal that sounded very carefully designed to appeal to her.
‘Jasmine can come here before and after school. I’m off work for a while. And you’ve seen how well the two of them get on. She’ll be much happier here than at the Carneys’. Won’t she?’
It was all true, and the arrangement would be immensely convenient. It was pretty perfect but nevertheless she felt reluctant to agree. It was bizarre, but there was a slight chance Phil might be tangled up in Rose’s death.
‘Well, if it’s only temporary,’ she said at last. ‘Until I find a permanent solution.’
Rule Consciousness
Question 24: It is safer to follow basic rules of right and wrong than risk society’s disapproval.
A. True
B. Uncertain
C. False
High score description (option A.): Conscientious, responsible, determined, sense of duty, concern with moral standards.
Monday 28th February
On Monday morning Lorraine got up well before sunrise and dropped Jasmine at Phil’s house, feeling relieved pleasure as her daughter hurtled up the path to greet Tim.
‘Coming in for a coffee?’ Phil shouted from the front door.
‘Sorry,’ she called through the open car window. ‘I need an early start.’
In fact the post meeting had been cancelled as Norman was away, so by eight-thirty she was in the payroll section at Pomona House. She requested an urgent computer report on all staff employed at the Memorial over the last year with the names ‘Chris’ and/or ‘Williams’.
‘Could be ages before I get round to it,’ the clerk spluttered, his mouth full of a bacon barm cake. ‘Got a massive backlog.’
‘The police need to check staff names urgently. Today. Yes, it’s in relation to the murder inquiry.’
The clerk wiped his greasy mouth on his sleeve and told her he could get it sent over that morning.
At the Memorial she went in search of Diaz, hoping to beg back her Filofax. Just her luck, he was out of the office that morning and she had to wait. Crossing the hospital site, she managed to slip inside the nurses’ home. It was a rambling Victorian villa subdivided into sad little cubicles. Though each cubicle bedroom had a key, she saw at once that the keys were all much smaller and fitted with red plastic fobs.
In the switchboard room she had a word with the supervisor, who pointed to shelves of dog-eared Yellow Pages. Against the incessant din from operators greeting callers and clicking jacks back and forth across the consoles, she searched ‘Hotels’, ‘Homes’, ‘Rest Homes’ and ‘Bed and Breakfasts’. She didn’t get far. There was a newly built King William Hotel and a few variations of Wilmslow Hotels far away in Cheshire but nothing worth following up.
Nevertheless, she was starting to feel better, binding her anxiety onto orderly actions, controlling her fears by taking determined steps forward. It reminded her of one of Doctor Lehman’s tenets, that it was better to employ mildly anxious individuals in responsible jobs because they always turned their worry into to-do lists.
