Original Sin (47 page)

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By ten o'clock Gabriel Dauntsey had gone down to let himself into his own flat and James de Witt and Frances were alone. Both realized that they were hungry. Mandy had finished both portions of the duck but neither would have felt equal to its richness. They were in the uncomfortable state of needing food but without being able to think of anything they actually wanted to eat. In the end Frances cooked a large herb omelette and they shared it with more pleasure than either would have thought possible. As if by an unspoken agreement they said little about Esm Carling's death.

Before Dauntsey left Frances had said: 'We're all responsible, aren't we? None of us really stood up to Gerard. We ought to have insisted on a discussion about Esm's future. Someone should have seen her, talked to her.'

James had said gently: 'Frances, we couldn't have published that book. I don't mean because it was a commercial book, we need popular fiction. But it was bad popular fiction. It was a bad book.'

And Frances had replied: 'A bad book? The ultimate crime, the sin against the Holy Ghost. Well she's certainly paid highly for it.'

The bitterness, the irony had surprised him. The comment had been so unlike her. But she had lost some of her old gentleness and passivity since the break-up with Gerard. He saw the change with a tinge of regret, but recognized that this was one more manifestation of his recurrent psychological need to search out and love the vulner-able, the innocent, the hurt and the weak, to give rather than to receive. He knew that it didn't make for an equal relationship, that a constant uncritical kindness could in its subtle condescension be as oppressive to the loved one as cruelty or neglect. Was this how he bolstered his ego, by the knowledge that he was needed, depended upon, admired for a compassion which when he looked at it with honest eyes was a particularly subtle form of emotional patronage and spiritual pride? Was he any better than Gerard for whom sex was part of his personal power game and who got a kick out of seducing a devout virgin because he knew that, for her, surrender had been a

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mortal sin? He had always loved Frances, he still loved her. He wanted her in his life, in his house, in his bed, as well as in his heart. Perhaps it was possible now that they could love on equal terms.

Tonight he was reluctant to leave her but there was no choice. Rupert's buddy, Ray, had to leave by .3o and Rupert was too ill to be alone even for a few hours. And there was another difficulty. He felt that he could hardly suggest that he should spend the night in her spare room without presumption. She might, after all, prefer to confront her private demons alone rather than have the inconvenience of his presence. And there was something more. He wanted to make love to her but it was too important to happen because shock and grief had made her vulnerable so that she came to his bed not from an equal desire but from the need to be comforted. He thought: What a mess we're all in. How hard it is to know ourselves and, when we do, how difficult to change.

But the problem solved itself when he said: 'Are you sure you'll be all right alone, Frances?'

She said firmly: 'Of course I shall. Anyway Rupert needs you at home. There's Gabriel downstairs if I need company, but I shan't need company. I'm used to being alone, James.'

She rang for a taxi and he took the quickest way home, paying off the cab at the Bank and taking the Central Line to Notting Hill Gate.

He saw the ambulance as soon as he turned out of Hillgate Street. His heart jolted. Breaking into a run he saw that the paramedics were already carrying Rupert down the front steps in a chair-stretcher. Nothing could be seen of him but his face above the blanket, a face which, even now in the extremity of weakness and stripped for death, had never for James lost its beauty. Watching the two men as they manoeuvred the stretcher with experienced hands, it seemed to him � that it was his own arms that could feel the unbearable lightness of their burden.

He said: 2'11 come with you.'

But Rupert shook his head. 'Better not. They don't want too many people in the ambulance. Ray will come.'

Ray said: 'That's right. I'm going with him.'

They were anxious to get off. Already there were two cars waiting to pass. He climbed into the ambulance and gazed wordlessly into Rupert's face.

Rupert said: 'Sorry about the mess in your sitting-room. I won't be

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coming back. You'll be able to tidy up and invite Frances now without either of you feeling the need to sterilize all the crockery.' James said: 'Where are they taking you? The hospice?' 'No, the Middlesex.' 'I'll come and see you tomorrow.' 'Better not.' Ray was already sitting in the ambulance solidly and comfortably as if it were his rightful place. And it was his rightful place. And now Rupert was speaking again. James bent to hear him. He said: q'hat story, about Gerard Etienne. About me and Eric. You didn't believe it?' 'yes Rupert, I did believe it.' 'It wasn't true. How could it be? It was a nonsense. Surely you know about incubation periods? You believed it because you needed to. Poor James! How you must have hated him. Don't look like that. Don't look so appalled.' It seemed to James that he had no voice. And when he did speak the words horrified him by their banal futility. 'You'll be all fight, Rupert?' 'Yes, I shall be all fight. I shall be finally all fight. Don't worry and don't visit. Remember what G. K. Chesterton said. ''We must learn to love life without ever trusting it." I never have.' He had no memory of climbing down from the ambulance but he heard the soft slam of the double doors as they were closed firmly in his face. In seconds it had turned the corner but he stood for a long time looking after it, as if it was travelling on a long straight road and he could watch it out of sight.

5o

Mount Eagle Mansions, close to Hammersmith Bridge, revealed itself as a large red-brick Victorian block with the shabby uncared-for look of a building languishing between owners. The huge over-embellished Italianate porch, its stucco beginning to crumble, was at odds with the plain fafade and gave the block an air of eccentric ambiguity as if the architect had been prevented by the failure of inspiration or money from completing his original design. Judging from the porch, Kate thought this was perhaps fortunate. But the inhabitants had obvious-ly not given up hope of preserving the value of their property. The windows, at least at ground-floor level, were clean, the varied curtains hung in regular folds and a few of the window-sills had been fitted with boxes from which ivy and trailing geraniums hung against the grimy bricks. The letter-box and door-knocker in the form of an immense lion's head were polished to whiteness and there was a large rush mat, obviously new, with 'Mount Eagle Mansions' woven into the bristles. To the right of the door was a row of doorbells, each with a name-card in the adjoining slot. The card for Flat 27, cut from a visiting card, read 'Mrs Esm6 Carling' in an ornate script. The card for Flat 29 had the one word 'Reed' in printed capitals. Kate's ring was answered after a few seconds by a female voice in which the tone of grudging resignation was clearly discerned above the crackle of the intercom.

'All right, come on up.'

There was no lift, although the size of the tessellated hall suggested that one had originally been intended. Along one wall was a double row of post boxes, clearly numbered, and against the other a heavy mahogany table, its legs elaborately carved, holding a collection of circulars, readdressed letters and a bundle of old papers tied with string. They were neatly arranged and above them swirls of dried soapy water showed that some attempt had been made to clean the paintwork, although the result had only been to emphasize the grime. The air smelled of furniture polish and disinfectant. Neither Kate nor Dalgliesh spoke, but as they mounted the stairs, past the heavy doors

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with their eye-holes and double security locks, Kate was aware of a rising excitement mixed with slight apprehension, and wondered whether this was shared by the quiet figure at her shoulder. This was an important interview. By the time they came down this stairway the case could be solved. Kate was surprised that Esm6 Carling couldn't afford something better than a flat in this unimpressive block. It was hardly a prestigious address at which to receive interviewers or journalists, assuming, of course, that she did receive them. But the little they knew of her didn't suggest a literary recluse and she was, after all, fairly well known. She, Kate, had heard of Esm Carling even if she had never read her. That didn't, of course, mean that her income from writing was large; hadn't she read in some magazine article that, while a few very successful novelists were millionaires, the majority, even the well-regarded, had difficulty in living off their royalties. But her agent would be with them in an hour and there was little point in wasting time cogitating about Esm8 Carling the crime writer when all the questions would so soon be answered by the person most qualified to know. Dalgliesh had chosen to see Daisy even before he examined Mrs Carling's flat and she thought she knew why. It was the child's information that was vital. Whatever secrets lay behind the door of number 27 could wait. The detritus of a murdered life told its own story. The evidence of the victim's pathetic leavings, letters, bills, could be misinterpreted but artefacts didn't lie, they didn't change their story, they didn't fabricate alibis. It was the living who must be interviewed while the shock of murder was still vivid in their minds. A good detective respected grief, sometimes shared it, but was never slow to exploit it, even the grief of a child. They had reached the door, and before she could lift her hand to the bell Dalgliesh said: 'You do the talking, Kate.' She replied, 'Yes, sir,' but her heart leapt. Two years ago she would almost have found herself praying, 'Oh God, let me get this right'; now, more experienced, she was confident that she would. She hadn't wasted time imagining what the child's mother, Shelley Reed, looked like. In police work it was wise not to anticipate reality by premature and manufactured prejudice. But when the chain rasped back and the door was opened she had difficulty in concealing her initial look of surprise. It was hard to believe that this chubby faced girl, staring at them with the sulky resentment of an aanad01escent, was the mother of a twelve-year-old. She could hardly !Illve been more than sixteen when Daisy was born. Her face, Naked o:hd 0fmake-up, still held something of the unformed softness of childhood-0,od.he sulky mouth was very full and drooped at the corners. I--Ier widei&0se was pierced at one side with a glittering stud matchin-g the st sds in her small ears. Her hair, a bright yellow at odds witzh her l.'r avy dark brows, hung in a fringe almost to her eyes and framed I d face in crimped curls. Her eyes were widely spaced and se-t at an a:ngleunder lids so heavy that they looked swollen. Only hr figurtueted at maturity. Heavy breasts swung loose under a long jersey eyfpristine white cotton and her long, well-shaped legs were ensconc0nd black tights. On her feet she wore house slippers embrcidered vdtLurex thread. Her hard uncompromising eyes changed a she sav'sa'Dalgliesh to a wary respect, as if she recognized a more intractabllbhuthority than that of a social worker. And when she spoke Iate dete-et a note of weary resignation in the ritual defiance. You'd better come in, although I don't know vvhat go0t gd it'll do. Your chaps have seen Daisy once. The kid has told you all sheknows. We co-operated with the police, and what do w get fo0t fritbut the bloody welfare on our backs. It's not their business how o'Ieam my living. OK, I'm a stripper. So what's wrong with that? I e! a living and I keep my kid. I'm in a job and it's legal, OK? The hpers are always complaining about single mothers on social securitJ',well I'm not on any bloody social security but I will be if I hx,e to 10tong about here all day answering damn silly questions. And 'we donn0o'tant any WPCs from the Juvenile Bureau. That one who came laslasle with that Jewish chap was a proper cow.' She hadn't moved during this welcome but noir at last, �Jt,ctantly, she stepped aside and they moved into a hall so small tldtll tt it could hardly hold the three of them. Dalgliesh said: 'I'm Commander Dalgliesh and this i.-i.s ipector Miskin who isn't from the Juvenile Bureau. She's a detectivc�e, we both are. We're sorry to worry you again, Mrs Reed, but we rme ttaLk to Daisy. Does she know that Mrs Carling is dead?' Yes, she knows. We all know, don't we? It was on the &e news. The next thing you'll be saying is that it wasn't suicide and &edid it.' 'Is Daisy distressed?' 'How do I know? She isn't laughing. I never kn-ow wh,llt kid's

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feeling anyway. She'll be distressed all right by the time you lot have finished with her. She's in here - I've rung the school to say she won't be in till the afternoon. And, look, do.me a favour. Make it quick, OK? I've got to get out to the shops. And the kid'll be looked after tonight. Don't you start fretting about Daisy. The cleaner here is coming in for the evening. After that you can bloody well ask the welfare to look after her if they're so worried.'

The sitting-room was narrow and gave an impression of cluttered discomfort and an oddness which puzzled Kate until she saw that an artificial fireplace, the mantelshelf crowded with good luck cards and small china ornaments, had been fitted to the external, chimney-less wall. To the right an open door showed a double bed, partly made and strewn with clothes. Mrs Reed went over and quickly closed it. To the right of the door was fitted a curtained rail on which Kate could glimpse a row of tightly packed dresses. There was an immense television set to the left of the door with a sofa facing it and in front of the double window a square table with four chairs. The table was piled high with what looked like school textbooks. A child in a uniform of navy-blue pleated skirt and white blouse turned and faced them.

Kate thought that she had seldom seen a plainer child. She was obviously her mother's daughter but by some trick of the genes the maternal features had been superimposed incongruously on her frail thin face. The eyes behind the spectacles were small and too far apart, the nose broad like that of the mother, the mouth as full and its downward turn more pronounced. But her skin was delicate and an extraordinary colour, a pale greeny-gold like apples seen under water. Her hair, its colour between gold and a pale auburn, hung like strands of silk framing a face which looked more mature than childlike. Kate glanced at Dalgliesh, then turned her eyes quickly away. She knew that what he was feeling was pity and tenderness. She had seen that look before, however quickly disdplined, however fleeting. She was surprised at the surge of resentment it provoked. For all his sensitivity he was no different from any other man. His first reaction on seeing a female was an aesthetic response, pleasure in beauty and a compassionate regret at ugliness. Plain women got used to that look; they had to. But surely a child could be spared that brutal revelation of a universal human unfairness. You could legislate for every kind of discrimination but not this. In everything from jobs to sex the attractive were advantaged, the very plain denigrated and