Death of a Perfect Mother (10 page)

We can't do it now, he periodically told himself. Now it would come straight back on the family. Gordon's got to see that.

So happy was he that he failed to notice when or whether Gordon left the bar, how long he was away, or whether anyone noticed. But he was light-headed with relief: it didn't matter now. They would never do it. Lill had won through again, he thought, and wondered how long he would be happy that she had.

• • •

Fred sat bolt upright in his chair at No. 10, Windsor Avenue, consciously on guard like a meticulous sheepdog. One thing he was not going to do tonight was go to sleep. He wondered whether he might take a bite to eat up to Debbie in her room. His consideration of this topic was a mere matter of form, something to think about: he knew he would not dare. Lill had said he wasn't to, and he wouldn't. He watched the beginning of an episode of a Francis Durbridge serial, and tried to make head or tail of the mysterious phone calls, the multiple identities, the inexplicable goings-on in the stockbroker belt. It took his mind off Debbie for the moment, but he came back to her. No doubt Lill was right. She always was. And what the girl had done was shocking—real disgusting. He played with the idea of sexual licence, and felt a vague pang of unease somewhere at the back of his head. No—he wouldn't take a bite up to Debbie. He'd do as Lill had told him. Naturally he would. He settled down into his usual rut of non-thought . . .

Suddenly he shook himself. The Francis Durbridge was over, and he hardly remembered a thing that had happened in it. Must watch out. He'd nearly dropped off then.

• • •

The evening at the Rose and Crown developed as such evenings do. By ten o'clock the bridegroom-to-be was in a state that could only be described as off-putting, but of course the bride was not there to be put off. Red, sweaty, distended and bulbous of eye, he was alternately raucous and maudlin, and resisted all attempts by his more responsible mates to get him home to bed. ‘It's my last night,' he kept saying, as though the hangman were coming for him in the cold quiet early hours.

As far as Brian could tell—and he was pretty high now, with drink and relief—Gordon was mixing with dazzling virtuosity among the various groups: a word here, a joke
there, hands on shoulders for a rugby song elsewhere. It was a marvel: he was everywhere, and yet nowhere in particular. He's keyed up, thought Brian, exhilarated by the thought of Saturday, just as I'm relieved we won't be doing anything. The thought suddenly depressed him again. How long before the project came up for discussion once more, even if they did shelve it for the present? And Brian had a sudden stab of fear that Gordon never would consent to shelve it. He was emotionally committed, and for all his apparently cool tactical planning, Gordon ran on his emotions. What if the thing went ahead after all? Fear now was back with him, back with that iron grip on his stomach it had had all week, making ominous rollings among the beer. But even if Gordon got caught and jailed, he told himself through a haze of drink and uncertainty, they could never pin anything on him, Brian. That was what was so humiliating in a way: his part in the whole thing amounted to nothing plus, and that was why nothing could be pinned on him. And then, if Gordon went to jail, for a long, long sentence . . . The thought of life without Lill or Gordon sent that strange pang of longing and fear through him again. It would be freedom. But could he cope with freedom?

On one of his bee-like hops from group to group Gordon found Brian temporarily alone, and stopped.

‘How did it go? Anyone notice I was gone?'

‘No. Nobody would, not in this shambles. Gord, there's something I want to say—'

‘Not here, you fool. The mugs have ears.' And with a smile in which only Brian could detect signs of strain Gordon sailed into his next all-boys-together encounter.

And now it was all songs. You had to end the evening with a song, didn't you? And then another. The plasticated imitation oak rafters rang, and Methodist households streets away shut their windows and doors. The beer-loosened voices rose in ecstatically scatological songs
of praise, and in the unholy din Brian did not hear the phone ring in the landlord's little den behind the bar, or see him disappear into it. But minutes later he registered with bleary surprise the figure of the landlord coming round the bar with an odd, unaccustomed expression of worry and uncertainty in his face and bearing—not like Jack Perkins, life and soul of the party except with his wife and kids. And Brian saw him enquiring something of one or two of the less drunk, saw him move towards Gordon, saw him bring him over, heard him say through the haze of beer and song and smoky bonhomie:

‘Look, I'm sorry, you boys, I've just had a message—you'd better—well, you'd better cut off home—it's rather serious—it's your mum—she's—'

‘Ill?'

‘Well, sort of, but worse. I'm sorry, lads. They say she's dead. I couldn't hear right well, you know, not through all this. But they said she'd been killed.'

Brian felt Gordon keel over towards him, crumpling at the knees and up the strong trunk of his body. Then with a powerful effort he righted himself, clutched on to the table uttering great racking sobs. Suddenly he cried ‘Killed!' and then shoved his way bodily through the crowd and out of the bar door. Brian ran in his wake and followed him in his first fast sprint up Balaclava Road. Two hundred yards from the pub Gordon stopped by the lamppost and heaved mountainously and noisily. And as Brian caught him up and stood over him, helpless, Gordon gazed at him through his heaving and retching, his face blotched hideously red, his eyes wet with grief and disappointment, and said:

‘Some bastard's gone and done it instead o' me. She was mine. I had it all worked out, you know that, down to the last detail. Some bastard's got there first. Now I'll never be able to throttle the life out of her.'

‘Come on,' hissed Brian, shaking himself into taking
control. ‘He said she'd been killed. He probably meant an accident. Don't crack up.'

And with a last mountainous heave and a shake Gordon did seem to get a grip, stood up, took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then he took off like a professional sprinter up the dark road. He faltered a little as they ploughed their way through the blackness of Snoggers Alley, and Brian caught him up so that together they could run the last stretch home.

Home. Lill's nest for her boys. But now transformed with lights, with two large police cars outside, and with a little knot of shameless neighbours and their children, watching the comings and goings. They made way for Gordon and Brian, gazed at them with ravenous, awkwardly respectful curiosity, stayed silent as they pushed their way through the front gate.

And Brian's most abiding memory of the day was the open front door, the hall blazing with light, and Fred meeting them, his skinny frame racked with sobs, his face red with rage and grief, tears running down his wrinkled cheeks, his voice cracked with shock and outrage.

‘Somebody's done her in,' he shouted. ‘Some bugger's been and killed our Lill.'

Morning. Waking. A dull sense of activity around the house. A sense of policemen in the house. Heavy feet and low, muffled voices. The aftermath of a murder.

Brian struggled to consciousness through a thick blanket of reluctance, hangover, and sense of impending disaster. It was seven o'clock. He had had, perhaps, five
hours' sleep. He and Gordon, long, long after midnight, and after questions dimly understood and haltingly answered, after cups of thick black instant coffee, had staggered up the stairs and—silent, almost, uncertain where they stood—had thrown themselves on to their beds and sunk into welcome, immediate oblivion.

Or not quite oblivion. Brian had had terrifying dreams of Lill, blue, strangulated, hideous, dead but still active, stalking the house where once she had reigned, intent on revenge. He knew too that Gordon had cried out in the night, without knowing how he knew. A sharp cry of pain or triumph. Lill was there in his sleep too. Of course she was. What else could one expect? Demons are not to be exorcized so easily.

In the next bedroom Fred, similarly wafting towards consciousness, turned his meagre, flannel-pyjamaed frame over in the bed and felt the space where Lill always slept. It was empty. Good old Lill, he thought: she's making the tea. Then he struggled upright, his thin body racked by coughs till tears came to his eyes.

Next door Mrs Casey lay wakeful in bed. Now that she was old she found she needed very little sleep. She lay in bed most nights thinking about her life, about what the Lord had given her and what He had withheld, about the lives and doings of her family and neighbours, about sin and retribution and kindred subjects. She was never bored. Last night after she had heard, she had thought about her daughter, about her life and death, so perfectly in accord with each other, and no doubt ordained that way by a Higher Power. She imagined Lill's face blue with strangulation, then remembered it thick with pancake make-up, mascara and lipstick. There was a rightness about the comparison that pleased her and brought a thin smile to her face. Lill had lived vilely and died violently. Mrs Casey stolidly turned back the bedclothes and began the process of getting up. Now no
doubt there would be interviews and questions. The police would be round. That was only right. They had their jobs to do. But she did not expect them to discover the murderer of Lill. She had an odd idea that the murderer of Lill enjoyed the protection of the Lord.

• • •

The Hodsdens gathered downstairs, haggard, pale grey around the eyes. Debbie's right eye had something more than mere greyness round it, and she felt the flick of an eye as one of the policemen noticed it. That was the new policeman, the one from Cumbledon, come to take over the investigation.

They all looked at him, the one who had not been there in the horrible, frenzied session late the previous night. He's very good-looking, Debbie thought. And he was too, in a self-conscious way. Very fair hair, damped down close around his head. Blue eyes—so much more policeman-like than brown. A rounded, regular sort of face on a sturdy neck. He looks a capable sort of chap, thought Fred. He coughed portentously and came forward to shake him by the hand.

‘We're all hoping you're goin' to find the rotten bastard that killed our Lill,' he said.

The policeman nodded, rather superior. Of course he was going to find the bastard that killed their Lill, seemed to be his message. Brian suddenly thought: he looks
stupid.
He hides it well, but really he's rather dim. Brian analysed his feelings, not quite sure whether to be glad or sorry. One thing he was certain of: he did want to know who it was had killed Lill. That didn't mean he wanted them punished.

The policeman cleared his throat and looked around him, using his clear, blue, frank eyes in a way he often practised in front of the bathroom mirror. Female shoplifters often went weak at the knees and confessed in the face of that gaze. The Hodsdens looked suitably impressed,
which gratified him.

‘My name is McHale,' he said, in a voice resonant with officialdom. ‘I've been called in to take charge of this case. Believe me, I realize what a distressing time this must be for you. But I expect you'd like to know how far we've got.'

‘Aye, we would that,' said Fred, who seemed anxious to make an impression on McHale as head of the family, something he never had been.

‘Well, as you know, your wife—your mother—was strangled along Balaclava Road, just up from the little cutting that takes you through to Windsor Avenue here.'

‘Snoggers Alley, that's what we calls it,' said Fred.

‘Really . . . ?' (The pause suggested he found the Hodsdens rather common.) ‘Where she was strangled there's a garden wall jutting out on to the pavement, making a dark little corner. It's very likely the murderer hid himself there—if he aimed to surprise her, that is, which seems likely. The killing took place, we would imagine, somewhere between eight-thirty and ten past ten, when the body was found. Any questions?'

‘Can't they be more exact than that, these doctors?' asked Fred. ‘It's so vague, anyone could have done it.'

‘No, it's only in books the doctors are willing to be so exact about the time of death. But no doubt as time goes by we'll narrow it down by other methods.' Chief Inspector McHale oozed self-confidence. ‘Now, just one or two more details: Mrs Hodsden's handbag was open and her purse had been ransacked—it was empty, in fact. Was there likely to have been much in it?'

‘We're not rich folks,' said Fred.

We are poor, but we are honest, thought Brian, victims of old Lily's whims . . . What's Fred up to, answering all these questions as if he was somebody? He's a changed man. Lill's death has gone to his head.

Perhaps Gordon thought the same, for he spoke for the
first time: ‘Mum never had much on her, and she wouldn't have had last night, not on a Thursday. She'd have got the housekeeping on Friday . . . today.'

‘Makes you think,' said Fred, gazing ahead.

An expression of irritation crossed McHale's bland, handsome face, as if he were used to a better class of murder victim. ‘At any rate,' he said, ‘what there was in the purse is gone. We'll also have to ask you to look at the contents of Mrs Hodsden's handbag to see if anything else is missing.'

‘What sort of things?' asked Fred.

‘Oh . . . valuables . . . you know . . .'

Fred shook his head, bewilderedly. ‘We're ordinary folks,' he said.

Christ, thought Brian. Somebody ought to offer us starring roles in
The Diary of a Nobody.
Fred Pooter and all the junior Pooters. Aloud he said:

‘Mum was very careful: she wouldn't have carried anything valuable around with her.' Like the latest tray of diamond trinkets sent on approval from Cartier's, the Farbergé Easter eggs she had purchased from an impoverished survivor of the Russian Imperial family. My God, I can't stand it. If Fred's going to go through this investigation waggling the banner of our ordinariness I'll have to put him down. At least before we were Lill's brood, objects of pity mingled with contempt. By the time the murder fuss has died down we'll be nothing minus, if Fred has his way.