The Private Patient (22 page)

“Yes, I did. There was no one there. The cottage was empty, with a
For Sale
board on the gate. I hoped the owners might have the address of someone I knew who used to live there. It was a small, private, unimportant matter. I want to send her a Christmas card—as simple as that. It's got nothing to do with the murder. Mog was cycling past, no doubt to visit his girlfriend for a bit of anything on offer, and I suppose he handed you that titbit of gossip. Some people in this bloody village can't keep their mouths shut. I'm telling you, it had nothing to do with Rhoda.”

“We're not suggesting it had, Mr. Boyton. But you were asked for an account of what you did since arriving here. Why leave that out?”

“Because I'd forgotten it. It wasn't important. Okay, I went to the village pub for lunch and drove around for part of the afternoon. I hadn't told you but I had to eat. I saw nobody, and nothing happened. I can't remember every single detail. I'm upset, confused. If you're going to keep on badgering me, I'll have to send for a lawyer.”

“You could certainly do that if you think it's necessary. And if you seriously believe you're being badgered, no doubt you'll make a formal complaint. We may wish to question you again, either before you leave or in London. In the meantime I suggest that, if there's any other fact, however unimportant, that you have omitted to mention, you let us know as soon as possible.”

They rose to go. It was then that Benton remembered that he hadn't asked about Miss Gradwyn's will. To have forgotten an instruction from AD would have been a bad mistake. Angry with himself, he spoke almost without thinking.

“You say you were Miss Gradwyn's dear friend. Did she ever confide in you about her will, hint that you might be a beneficiary? At your last meeting, perhaps. When was that?” “On twenty-first November, at The Ivy. She never mentioned her will. Why should she? Wills are about death. She wasn't expecting to die. The operation wasn't life-threatening. Why would we talk about her will? Are you saying you've seen it?”

And now, unmistakable under his tone of outrage was the half-shameful curiosity and spark of hope.

Benton said casually, “No, we haven't seen it. It was just a thought.” Boyton didn't come to the door, and they left him sitting at the table, head in hands. Closing the garden gate behind them, they set out to return to the Old Police Cottage.

Benton said, “Well, what did you think of him?”

“Not much, Sarge. Not bright, is he? And spiteful with it. But I can't see him as a killer. If he'd wanted to murder Miss Gradwyn, why follow her down here? He'd have more opportunity in London. But I don't see how he could have done it without an accomplice.”

Benton said, “Perhaps Gradwyn herself, letting him in for what she thought would be a confidential chat. But on the day of her operation? Unusual, surely. He's frightened, that's obvious, but he's also excited. And why is he staying on? I have a feeling he was lying about the important matter that he wanted to discuss with Rhoda Gradwyn. I agree it's hard to see him as a murderer, but then that goes for everyone here. And I think he was lying about the will.”

They walked on in silence. Benton wondered whether he had confided too much. It must, he thought, be difficult for DC Warren, part of the team and yet a member of another force. Only members of the special unit took part in the evening discussions, but DC Warren would probably feel more relieved than aggrieved at being excluded. He had told Benton that by seven, unless specifically needed, he drove back to Wareham to his wife and four children. Altogether he was proving his worth, and Benton liked him and felt at ease with the six-foot-two of solid muscle pacing by his side. Benton had a strong interest in helping to ensure that Warren's home life wasn't greatly disturbed: his wife was Cornish, and that morning Warren had arrived with six Cornish pasties of remarkable flavour and succulence.

3

Dalgliesh spoke little on the journey north. This wasn't unusual, and Kate didn't find his taciturnity uncomfortable; to journey with Dalgliesh in companionable silence had always been a rare and private pleasure. As they approached the outskirts of Droughton Cross, she concentrated on giving precise instructions well in advance of a turning, and on contemplating the interview ahead. Dalgliesh hadn't phoned to give the Reverend Curtis warning of their arrival. It was hardly necessary as clergymen could usually be found on a Sunday, if not in their vicarages or churches, then somewhere in the parish. And there was also advantage in a surprise visit.

The address they were seeking was
2
Balaclava Gardens, the fifth turning off Marland Way, a wide road running to the centre of the city. Here was no Sunday calm. The traffic was heavy—cars, delivery vans and a succession of buses bunching on the glistening road. The grinding roar was a constant discordant descant to the continually repeated blare of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” interposed with the first verses of the better-known carols. No doubt in the city centre the “Winterfest” was being appropriately celebrated by the official municipal decorations, but in this less privileged highway the individual and uncoordinated efforts of the local shopkeepers and café owners, the rain-soaked lanterns and faded bunting, the swinging lights blinking from red to green to yellow, and the occasional meanly decorated Christmas tree seemed less a celebration than a desperate defence against despair. The faces of the shoppers seen through the rain-besmirched side windows of the car had the melting insubstantial look of disintegrating wraiths.

Peering through the blur of the rain, which had persisted throughout their journey, they could have been driving through any thoroughfare in an unprosperous inner-city suburb, not so much featureless as an amorphous mixture of the old and the new, the neglected and the renovated. Terraces of small shops were broken by a series of high-rise flats set well back behind railings, and a short terrace of well-maintained and obviously eighteenth-century houses were an unexpected and incongruous contrast to the take-away cafés, the betting shops and the garish shop signs. The people, heads hunched against the driving rain, seemed to move with no apparent purpose, or stood under the shelter of shop awnings surveying the traffic. Only the mothers pushing their baby buggies, the hoods shrouded in plastic, showed a desperate and purposeful energy.

Kate fought off the depression tinged with guilt which always descended on her at the sight of high-rise flats. In such a grimy oblong container, monument to local authority aspiration and human desperation, had she been born and bred. From childhood her one compulsion had been to escape, to break free from the pervading smell of urine on the stairs, a lift that was always broken down, the graffiti, the vandalism, the raucous voices. And she had escaped. She told herself that life in a high-rise was probably better now, even in a city centre, but she couldn't drive past without feeling that in her personal liberation something that was inalienably part of her had not been so much rejected as betrayed.

No one could miss St. John's Church. It stood on the left of the road, a huge Victorian building with a dominant spire on the junction with Balaclava Gardens. Kate wondered how a local congregation could possibly support this grimed architectural aberration. Apparently it was with difficulty. A tall billboard outside the gate bore a painted thermometerlike structure which proclaimed that three hundred and fifty thousand pounds remained to be raised, and underneath, the words
Please help save our tower.
An arrow pointing to a hundred and twenty-three thousand looked as if it had remained stationary for some time.

Dalgliesh drew up outside the church and went over quickly to look at the notice board. Sliding back into his seat, he said, “Low Mass at seven, High Mass at ten-thirty, Evensong and Vespers at six, confessions five to seven Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. With luck we'll find him at home.”

Kate was grateful that she and Benton weren't facing this interview together. Years of experience in interrogation of a variety of suspects had taught her the accepted techniques and, where necessary, modification in the face of widely differing personalities. She knew when softness and sensitivity were necessary and when they were seen as weakness. She had learnt never to raise her voice or avert her gaze. But this suspect, if that's what he proved to be, was one she wouldn't find it easy to question. Admittedly it was difficult to see a clergyman as a suspect for murder, but there might be an embarrassing if less horrific reason for his stopping at that remote and lonely spot so late at night. And what exactly was one supposed to call him? Was he a vicar, rector, clergyman, minister, parson or priest? Should she call him Father? She had heard all used at different times, but the subtleties, and indeed the orthodox belief, of the national religion were alien to her. The morning assembly at her inner-city comprehensive had been determinedly multi-faith, with occasional reference to Christianity. What little she knew about the country's established Church had been unconsciously learnt from architecture and literature and from the pictures in the major galleries. She knew herself to be intelligent with an interest in life and people, but the job she loved had largely satisfied her intellectual curiosity. Her personal creed of honesty, kindness, courage and truth in human relationships had no mystical basis and no need of one. The grandmother who grudgingly had brought her up had given her only one piece of advice on religion, which, even at the age of eight, she had found unhelpful.

She had asked, “Gran, do you believe in God?”

“What a daft question. You don't want to start wondering about God at your age. Only one thing to remember about God. When you're dying, call in a priest. He'll see you're all right.”

“But suppose I don't know I'm dying?”

“Folk usually do. Time enough then to start bothering your head with God.”

Well, at this moment she didn't need to bother her head. AD was the son of a priest and had interviewed parsons before. Who better to cope with the Reverend Michael Curtis?

They turned into Balaclava Gardens. If there had ever been gardens, all that remained now were occasional trees. Many of the original Victorian terraced houses still stood, but number
2
, and four or five houses beyond, were square modern red-brick dwellings. Number
2
was the largest, with a garage to the left, and a small front lawn with a central bed. The garage door was open and inside was a dark-blue Ford Focus with the registration W
341
UDG.

Kate rang the bell. Before there was any response, she caught the sound of a woman's voice calling and the high shout of a child. After some delay there was the sound of keys being turned and the door opened. They saw a young woman, pretty and very fair. She was wearing trousers with a smock and was carrying a child on her right hip while two toddlers, obviously twins, pulled at both sides of her trousers. They were miniatures of their mother, each with the same round face, corn-coloured hair cut in a fringe and wide eyes which now stared at the newcomers in unblinking judgement.

Dalgliesh took out his warrant card. “Mrs. Curtis? I'm Commander Dalgliesh from the Metropolitan Police, and this is Detective Inspector Miskin. We're here to see your husband.”

She looked surprised. “The Metropolitan Police? That's something new. We do get the local police round from time to time. Some of the youths from the high-rises cause trouble occasionally. They're a good crowd—the local police, I mean. Anyway, please come in. Sorry I kept you waiting but we've got these double security locks. It's awful, I know, but Michael has been attacked twice in the last year. That's why we had to take down the sign saying that this is the vicarage.” She called in a voice totally devoid of anxiety, “Michael, darling. Someone from the Met Police is here.”

The Reverend Michael Curtis was wearing a cassock with what looked like an old college scarf wound round his neck. Kate was glad when Mrs. Curtis shut the front door behind them. The house struck her as cold. He came forward and rather absent-mindedly shook hands. He was older than his wife, but perhaps not so much older as he seemed, his thin, rather stooped frame in contrast to her buxom comeliness. His brown hair, cut in a monklike fringe, was beginning to grey, but the kindly eyes were watchful and shrewd and when he grasped Kate's hand his grip was confident. Bestowing on his wife and children a look of puzzled love, he indicated a door behind him.

“Perhaps in the study?”

It was a larger room than Kate had expected, its French windows looking out on a small garden. Obviously no attempt at cultivating the beds or mowing the lawn had been made. The small space had been given over to the children, with a climbing frame, a sandpit and a swing. Various toys were strewn across the grass. The study itself smelled of books and, she thought, faintly of incense. There was a crowded desk, a table piled with books and magazines set against the wall, a modern gas fire, at present lit with only one bar, and, to the right of the desk, a crucifix with a stool for kneeling before it. There were two rather battered armchairs in front of the fire.

Mr. Curtis said, “I think you'll find these two chairs reasonably comfortable.”

Seating himself at the desk, he edged round the swivel chair to face them, hands on knees. He looked a little puzzled but completely unworried.

Dalgliesh said, “We wanted to ask you about your car.”

“My old Ford? I don't think it can have been taken and used in the commission of a crime. It's very reliable for its age, but it doesn't go very fast. I can't believe anyone has taken it with evil intent. As you probably saw, it's in the garage. It's perfectly all right.”

Dalgliesh said, “It was seen parked late on Friday night close to the scene of a serious crime. I'm hoping that whoever was driving might have seen something that would help our enquiries. Perhaps another parked car or someone acting suspiciously. Were you in Dorset on Friday night, Father?”

“Dorset? No, I was here with the PCC on Friday from five o'clock. As it happens, I wasn't driving the car myself that evening. I'd lent it to a friend. He'd taken his in for servicing and its MOT, but I gather there were things that needed to be done. He had an urgent appointment he was very anxious to keep, so he asked if he could borrow mine. I said I could use my wife's bike if I was called out. I'm sure he'll be happy to help in any way he can.”

“When did he return the car?”

“It must have been very early yesterday morning, before we got up. I remember that it was back when I went out to seven o'clock Mass. He left a thank-you note on the dashboard, and he'd filled it with petrol. I thought he would; he's always considerate. Dorset, you say? That was a long journey. I think if he'd seen anything suspicious or had witnessed an incident he would have phoned and told me. Actually, we haven't spoken since he returned.”

Dalgliesh said, “Anyone near the scene could have useful information without realising its significance. It might not have seemed unusual or suspicious at the time. May we have his name and address? If he lives locally, it would save time if we could see him now.”

“He's the head of our local comprehensive, Droughton Cross school. Stephen Collinsby. You might catch him now at the school. He usually goes in on Sunday afternoons to prepare in peace for the week ahead. I'll write the address down for you. It's quite close. You could walk there if you want to leave your car here. It should be safe in our drive.”

Swivelling round, he pulled open the left-hand drawer and, after rummaging for a time, found a blank sheet of paper and began writing. Folding it neatly and handing it to Dalgliesh, he said, “Collinsby's our local hero. Well, he's become something of a national hero now. Perhaps you read something in the papers or saw that television programme on education in which he appeared? He's a brilliant man. He's completely turned round Droughton Cross Comprehensive. It was all done by principles which I suppose most people would support but which others don't seem to be able to put into effect. He believes that every child has a talent, skill or intellectual ability which can enhance his whole life and that it's the job of the school to discover and nurture it. Of course he needs help and he's got the whole community involved, particularly the parents. I'm a school governor so I do what I can. I give Latin lessons here to two boys and two girls once a fortnight, helped by the organist's wife, who augments my deficiencies. Latin isn't on the syllabus. They come because they want to learn the language and they're wonderfully rewarding to teach. And one of our churchwardens runs the chess club with his wife. They have boys in that club who have a rare talent for the game and huge enthusiasm, boys who no one thought would ever achieve anything. And if you become school champion with a hope of playing for the county you don't have to earn respect by carrying a knife. Forgive me for nattering on like this, but since I've known Stephen and become a school governor I've got very interested in education. And it's heartening when good things happen against the odds. If you have time to talk to Stephen about the school I think you'll be fascinated by his ideas.”

Now they were rising together. He said, “Oh dear, I'm afraid I've been very remiss. Won't you stay for tea, or perhaps coffee?” He looked round vaguely, as if expecting the beverage to materialise from the air. “My wife could . . .” He made for the door and was about to call.

Dalgliesh said, “Thank you, Father, but we must be away. I think we'd better take the car. We may have to leave in a hurry. Thank you for seeing us and for your help.”

In the car, their seatbelts buckled, Dalgliesh opened the paper and passed it to Kate. Father Curtis had drawn a meticulous little diagram with arrows pointing to the school. She knew why Dalgliesh had decided not to walk. Whatever the coming interview revealed, it would be prudent not to return and risk questions from Father Curtis.