A Species of Revenge (22 page)

He'd assumed from the first that the interview with Kendrick would
be
a confrontation: Professor Kendrick, Cambridge intellectual, versus Gil Mayo, ignorant copper, which was why he'd taken Abigail along with him. Ignorant copper he might seem to someone like Kendrick, but he was also a professional one, and apt to get shirty when people forgot. Abigail being there would have a restraining influence on him. He was willing to be proved wrong, but this was the impression Kendrick had given him when they first met. Kendrick had hardly given him the time of day at the party.

They'd found him dead-heading his roses in the cool of the evening. The shadow of the sequoia fell long over the lawn, there was a spectacular sunset over the distant hills. Mayo had decided to play the part expected of him and to keep initially in the background, letting Abigail do the talking. She was the expert here, after all. She'd struck the right note from the beginning, murmuring something about the roses being a credit to him, which had the effect of loosening Kendrick up a bit and bringing a smile to his face.

‘Oh, I didn't plant them. They were here when we came. I don't know the first thing about gardening in general, but the roses were so magnificent, it seemed a pity not to learn how to look after them properly.'

He would, Mayo thought. He'd approach the subject with as much rigour as if it were another academic exercise, master it once and for all and that would be it. Mayo, to whom all gardening was a mystery, could admire that. Perhaps if he himself didn't live in the upstairs flat of a house whose elderly owners lived on the ground floor and kept the garden looking neat and pleasant, if unremarkable, he might be encouraged to broaden his knowledge. Rather like Abigail Moon had done with the garden of her cottage, only it had grabbed her in the way Mayo doubted it would ever grab him. The furthest he got in that line was mowing the lawn, whenever he had the time, for the Vickers. Give him a clock that needed setting to rights, any day ... not like weeds and grass, which never stopped growing, even after you'd attended to them.

Abigail, catching his glance, smoothly brought the discussion to a close and said immediately, ‘You know that we're here to investigate the death of Patti Ryman, Mr Kendrick. Did you know her?'

‘The paper girl? No, I never set eyes on her, to my knowledge. My study's here at the back of the house and I'm normally working there when the papers are delivered.'

‘I'm told you go jogging in the early morning?'

‘I walk,' he corrected shortly. ‘And sometimes in the evening, too, for that matter. I try to do six or seven miles, most days.'

Mayo, also a dedicated walker, to whom half a dozen miles was little more than a limbering up, didn't comment, but Abigail asked, ‘Any particular routes?'

‘Sometimes as far as Scotley Beeches, or Kennet Edge, quite often just to the other side of Lavenstock and back.'

‘Did you go out on Monday morning?'

‘No, as a matter of fact, I didn't. I had papers to sort out before my trip to London and was rather pushed for time.'

Mayo spoke up for the first time. ‘You drove up to Birmingham New Street to catch the London train, rather than go from Coventry. Why was this?'

The big, raw-boned hand tightened on the secateurs. Kendrick leaned forward to snip off a dead head, precisely before the next bud, dropping it into the wheelbarrow before he answered. ‘It may have escaped your notice, Superintendent, but Lavenstock is more or less equidistant from both points.'

‘But the train starts at least twenty minutes earlier from New Street. What made you decide to go from there, since you hadn't much time to spare?'

Kendrick treated him to the sort of glance reserved for backward students. ‘Oh come, that time in the morning? With all the traffic on our famous one-way system? Any time you might have in hand you're likely to lose it – whereas you can use the bypass the other way. Whichever station you choose there's nothing to it in terms of time. You save nothing but your temper. But in any case,' he added blandly, ‘I had a manuscript to deliver to my typist on the way there.'

Manuscript my backside, thought Mayo, becoming more bloody-minded northern the more patronizing Kendrick became. And the traffic wasn't that bad. Unless Kendrick had, in fact, gone from Coventry and used the spare time otherwise. It could be checked. ‘The address of your typist, please?'

Kendrick gave it with an amused smile.

‘And how did you pay for your ticket? Cash, credit card?'

‘In cash.' Kendrick's look managed to convey the impression that credit cards were only for the lower orders, or the feckless who lived beyond their means, and how he paid for his ticket was no business of anyone else, anyway.

‘All right.' Mayo changed tack. ‘Back to these walks of yours. You didn't go for one last Saturday evening – Saturday week, that is, did you?'

‘Are you telling me, or asking me? I don't remember so far back.'

‘That was the evening you had your party here.'

‘So it was. You were one of our guests, I believe.' Mayo tried not to imagine that the word ‘guest' was stressed. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I didn't get my walk in that evening.' He smiled suddenly and Abigail, at least, saw that there might, in different circumstances, be a more appealing side to him. ‘I play the organ at St Gregory's on alternate Sundays and I usually practise for an hour or so on Saturday evening. I saw no reason why the party should make any difference. I went across after everyone had gone home.'

‘That would be – what? Eightish? I myself left just before that ... while you were demonstrating your Victorian music box to young Allie.'

‘It's called a Polyphon,' Francis said, after a pause. ‘The children and their father and aunt went home shortly after eight.'

‘So you'd be home after your organ practice at what time?'

Another fractional hesitation. ‘I suppose it may have been around nine thirty. I don't believe I noticed the time.'

‘One of your sisters would no doubt confirm this.'

‘No doubt they could. Unfortunately, Hope is at a PTA meeting, and Imogen is also out. But I should regard it as an unpardonable liberty if they were asked to. What reason do you have for checking up on me? That night or any other?'

‘Oh, we're only eliminating you from certain inquiries, on another murder, sir.' Mayo gave the time-honoured assurance with only the merest glint of irony in his eye. Did the man visibly relax? ‘We just wanted to be sure you'd nothing to tell us. Seems you haven't, so we'll leave you to your roses. Unless,' he added, ‘the name of Philip Ensor means anything to you?'

‘Ensor? No. I don't know anyone of that name. Who is he?'

‘You may have read about him in the papers. He was the man who was found murdered last Saturday night, sir, on the Colley Street allotments.'

But Francis Kendrick shook his head.

Mayo felt by no means as cheerful, nor even as insensitively brusque, as he'd sounded on leaving Francis Kendrick. On the contrary, he was, quite suddenly and inexplicably, overwhelmed by the feelings of sadness and loneliness he'd sensed in the man. It wasn't something he'd expected to feel. But that last glimpse of his face, lost and tormented, stayed with him.

Ten days since Ensor's killing, and the days were growing cooler, a different quality could be discerned in the light. Evening was coming on appreciably quicker. The sun was going down over Kennet Edge, in a sky streaked with turquoise and rose-gold. The scent of Kendrick's roses seemed to cling to them as they bowled down the hill once more towards Milford Road.

‘Well, do you think he
has
nothing more to tell us?' Abigail asked, turning his own words back to him.

‘Remains to be seen.' Mayo did his best to shake off the feelings that Kendrick had stirred up. ‘Somebody might remember him buying a ticket at Coventry – stands out in a crowd, that height, doesn't he? But I think he's probably telling the truth.'

‘What about the Saturday night, and Ensor?'

‘Fisticuffs doesn't seem exactly his thing. Words are more his weapon.' He relapsed into an abstracted silence, until they reached the station.

Once there, they found all the accumulated work of the day awaiting them.

‘With all there is to do yet, it looks like being a late session again tonight, Abigail – sorry.'

‘No problem. Nobody makes plans when we've something like this on if they've any sense.'

He rang Alex, warning her not to expect him home until late. ‘Tell you what. I'll give you a ring when I'm ready, and if you haven't already eaten, you can come down and meet me and we'll grab something quick in the town, save the bother of fixing something when I get in.'

‘Good idea. Ask Abigail to join us. How about a quick Chinese? We can be in and out in twenty minutes.'

Well, he'd suggested it.

By the time they'd worked their way through the bean-curd soup and the king prawns and the fried won ton, Mayo couldn't face even a bowl of lychees, never mind the hot banana fritters in syrup which the two women were ordering with every anticipation of enjoyment. Chinese food always had the same effect on him: by this stage in the meal he was replete, full to saturation point, but knowing with certainty that an hour later he'd be feeling hollow, craving a thick ham sandwich with plenty of mustard. What was more, there was the vexed question of what to drink with that sort of food: perish the thought of a decent wine – and the diuretic effects of jasmine tea, late at night, was a problem he could do without. He settled, as usual, for a lager. He always grumbled about coming to the overpriced Jade Lotus, supposedly renowned for its Peking cuisine, but in the end gave in because he knew Alex liked it. The decor was restful, it was discreetly lit and the chairs were comfortable, at any rate.

Plus, it was a chance to step aside for an hour from the sort of case that took over every waking thought – and sometimes sleep, as well. One which he'd had no intention of talking about over this meal, though, not even to Alex, who could usually be relied on to lend a sympathetic and understanding ear, often making valuable suggestions of her own, having been in on the sharp end and knowing what it was like. But tonight, he was a little disgruntled, his intention when suggesting supper out having been to direct the conversation into other, quite different channels. He'd be discreet about it, but steer them back to the point where she'd sidestepped the other day. He needed to lay a few ghosts. And then she'd included Abigail. But Abigail, now having demolished the last of the sizzling bananas, was making noises about an early start in the morning, preparing to leave. Maybe there was still time to approach the subject uppermost in his mind.

It was not to be.

Someone stopped near their table. He looked up to see Dermot Voss, smiling, stretching out a hand, making surprised noises about fancy seeing them here and why didn't they come across and join them for coffee or whatever. Pointing to a table just around the corner, with a mirror opposite his seat, through which he'd presumably seen them, though they hadn't seen him. Damn. Damn it to hell. He liked the volatile Voss and his amusing conversation, but he was in no mood to be entertained. However ... Swallowing hard, he decided it might after all be opportune.

Alex, in her calm way, was beginning to make excuses, but Mayo smoothly intervened, Abigail said no more about going home, and in no time they were all sitting round the same table, he and Alex, Abigail, Dermot and Imogen Loxley.

Imogen Loxley. Well, now, there was a turn-up for the book. Mayo watched them and wondered what Sarah thought about being left at home with Dermot's offspring while Dermot was out wining and dining an attractive woman – if she knew about it, that was. It occurred to him that young woman wasn't exactly getting a wonderful deal out of all this.

The other four were drinking jasmine tea and Mayo was understanding why they'd chosen it in preference to the coffee he'd ordered. On the same principle, presumably, that you didn't order fish and chips outside the British Isles if you were wise. The coffee was undrinkable.

He put the cup down and caught Imogen's stare before she looked quickly away. If she was supposed to be enjoying herself, she wasn't giving that impression. She joined in the conversation, in a social way, but she wasn't really there. She fidgeted with her spoon. Her white silk blouse was scarcely paler than she was. Dermot, on the other hand, was rattling away like an express train. He was explaining his new job, and how it had necessitated him leaving Milton Keynes, how he'd had the amazing luck to find a profitable investment like Edwina Lodge ... enthusing rather too much, Mayo suspected, over something which had seemed like a good idea at the time but was already turning out to be rather a boring commitment.

‘Not a very auspicious start to life here in Lavenstock,' he was saying. ‘Food poisoning on the first night, my car nicked what next? Nothing like this ever happened in MK!'

‘Yes, I remember you said before that you'd had food poisoning.'

‘Did I? Well, it's not something I'm likely to forget. From some shellfish I ate for dinner, I suspect. Had to rush out of the restaurant.'

‘The food's usually pretty dependable at the Saracen's. Did you complain to the management?'

‘No. There was no point. Once I'd got rid of whatever it was, I felt all right.'

‘Well, as far as your car goes, the problem may have solved itself,' Abigail told him.

‘You've found it?'

‘We caught someone stealing a car today, and he's asked for others to be taken into consideration, yours among them. You should have it back shortly.'

Dermot's face was a study. ‘Well, what do you know.'

Imogen said drily, ‘Even Milton Keynes couldn't beat that.'