The Shape of Snakes (11 page)

I brought her back to Rosie and Bridget. "Did the girls marry?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't say, my dear. If they did it wasn't in St. Mark's." She paused for reflection. "Mind, the report on the armed robbery-the one about Michael Percy-mentioned a wife called Bridget-and I thought at the time"-she pursed her lips into a tight little rosebud-"well, well! All those children were close. They used to run around in a gang together ... couldn't prize them apart most of the time."

I wasn't there to score points with superior knowledge so I searched for a photograph of Jock Williams instead. Predictably, I couldn't find one. He vaunted his atheism as loudly as a born-again Christian vaunts Jesus' love, and he wouldn't set foot inside a church if his soul depended on it. There was a picture of Libby talking to Sam and me at Annie's funeral, and I pointed it out to Wendy and asked her if she'd ever met the husband. "His name was Jock Williams. They lived at number 21."

"What did he look like?"

"Late twenties ... about five years older than Libby ... dark-haired, quite good-looking, five foot ten." Another shake of her head. "He and Libby divorced eighteen months after Annie died. Libby took herself off to Southampton but Jock moved to a three-story town house in Alveston Road."

Wendy smiled apologetically. "To be honest I wouldn't have known who this woman was if you hadn't told me. Is it important?"

"Probably not."

She watched me for a moment. "Meaning it is," she declared. "But why?"

I concentrated on a small figurine on a side table which was the same shade as Sheila Arnold's bracelet. "Most people have to settle for smaller houses when they get divorced," I said mildly, wishing I knew more about jade. "Jock moved into a bigger one."

She was clearly puzzled by my interest. "It was the way we were living then. People took absurd risks on property after Margaret Thatcher came to power. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. I remember one of our parishioners saddled himself with a mortgage of nearly Ł200,000 and doubled his investment within five years. Another bought just as the market peaked and within a few months found himself owing more than the house was worth. Your friend was lucky."

I nodded agreement. "What about Maureen Slater's and Sharon Percy's houses?" I asked her. "If they're still living on Graham Road does that mean they remained as council tenants or did they exercise their right to buy?"

"Oh, they bought, of course," she said sourly. "Everything in public ownership was sold off within the first two or three years. It was laughably cheap ... no one in their right mind would have turned their backs on an offer like that. Sharon paid for hers outright, I believe, and Maureen opted to stagger her payments. Now, of course, they're quids in. Their houses are worth about Ł200,000 ... and they paid an absolute pittance for them because the wretched taxpayers subsidized the sales."

I smiled. "You don't approve."

"Why would I?" she countered crossly. "Every time I see a homeless person lying in a doorway I think how criminal it is that there's no housing left for the genuinely deprived."

"Some might say Maureen Slater was genuinely deprived," I murmured. "She took a lot of punishment from her husband."

"Yes, well, Maureen's different," she admitted grudgingly. "Her brain was turned to mush by that brute. Peter used to describe her as 'punch drunk' from all the beatings, but if I'm honest I think real drunkenness probably had more to do with it. She was just as addicted to alcohol as Derek was ... though with rather more justification." She caught my surprised expression. "Anesthesia," she explained. "It must have been very painful to be used as a sparring partner."

"Still..." I said slowly, "if her brain was turned to mush, how could she have afforded to buy her house? Presumably she couldn't work, so what did she use for money ... even if it was only a pittance that she had to find?"

There was a long silence.

"What aren't you telling me?" demanded Wendy finally.

I took time to consider my answer, but in the end I decided to be straight with her. "I met Sheila Arnold recently ,.. Annie's doctor. She told me Annie was robbed. Now I'm wondering who robbed her, how much they made on the deal and what the money was used for."

"Oh, dear, dear," said Wendy with genuine concern. "I really don't think there's any truth in that story. Sheila only came up with it when she was accused of neglecting another patient-and that was three or four years after Annie died. She wasn't remotely interested until her own interests were compromised." She tapped the tips of her fingers together in agitation. "It was all a bit strange. Not a word said for ages ... then suddenly Sheila expects us to believe that, far from being the vulnerable soul we thought she was, Annie was a wealthy woman, living in comfort, until shortly before she died. It all became very unpleasant very quickly ... insults being thrown about ... everyone accusing everyone else of lying."

I didn't say anything, and she seemed to think she'd upset me.

"Are you disappointed?" she asked. "I'm so sorry. Peter told me what a shock Annie's death was to you."

"Please don't apologize." I wondered what else Peter had divulged. "I'm not disappointed." I opened my rucksack to reveal a six-inch-thick file, then took out an envelope of press clippings and flicked through the pile till I came to June 1982. "Is this the story you mean?" I asked her, handing her the "Local doctor denies neglect" report.

"Yes," she said slowly, glancing up from the yellowed paper. "How long have you had it?"

"Sixteen years. It was the fifth time Annie's name was mentioned in the press since the publicity over her death. These"-I removed the remaining clippings from the envelope and flicked my thumb down the guillotined edges-"are all the other references. Her case is generally cited to illustrate the dangers of allowing vulnerable people to fend for themselves." I smiled slightly at Wendy's expression. "Various friends save articles for me. Also, I pay my old university library to monitor the local and national press for any mention of Ann Butts," I explained.

"Good gracious!"

"And for any mention of the two police officers who investigated her death," I went on, removing another envelope. "These are the articles that refer to them. One, PC Quentin, died in a car crash seven years ago. The other, PS Drury, retired from the police in 1990 to take over a pub in the Radley brewery chain. There are also clippings about anyone mentioned in previous articles ... for example, there's a reference to Dr. Arnold's move to Dorchester ... and one about you and your husband leaving St. Mark's to take up a parish in the west country."

She looked at the piece on Sheila's alleged negligence. "The previous reference to us being Peter's quote at the end, I suppose?"

I nodded. "He didn't pull any punches either. "There's no excuse for this kind of neglect. Lessons should have been learnt ... so that the same mistakes could not happen again.' " My eyes strayed toward the jade figurine. "Did he know what he was talking about? Had he ever been inside Annie's house?"

Wendy shook her head. "She wouldn't give him the time of day because she knew Maureen took refuge at the vicarage."

"Then he had no business to talk about 'this kind of neglect,' " I said lightly. "It suggests an informed comparison, which he couldn't make, and it was hardly surprising that Sheila was upset about it."

"I know," she agreed unhappily. "The only good thing is, he didn't mention her by name."

I shrugged. "He didn't need to. It's perfectly clear who he's talking about. In any case, the newspaper probably edited it out to avoid a libel suit. The whole article's carefully constructed to record Sheila's
denials
of neglect without ever actually accusing her of it."

Wendy gave yet another heartfelt sigh. "It was my fault really. I'm the one who reminded Peter about Annie, and he promptly rushed off in high dudgeon to talk to the press. Sheila never forgave him for it and it made life very difficult afterward."

"I can imagine"-I extracted "Doctor cleared by BMA"-"particularly as Sheila was exonerated. Mr. Potts wasn't even her patient."

"It was too late by then. The damage had been done. Peter did try to apologize but Sheila was having none of it." She paused. "But it wasn't entirely his fault, you know. Sheila was spreading some frightful counteraccusations against him, saying the reason Annie distrusted him so much was because he'd supported the neighbors' attempts to get rid of her from the street. She even suggested he was a racist."

"Is he?"

I thought she might be angry, but she wasn't. "No. He has many faults but racism isn't one of them. Sheila knew it, too. It was an unkind thing to say."

"Not much fun for any of you." I murmured.

"Terrible!"

"But it doesn't mean Sheila was wrong to say Annie was robbed," I pointed out.

"It just seems so unlikely," said Wendy. "No one thought Annie had a house full of treasures while she was alive. Did
you
think she had?"

"No," I admitted, "but Sheila does have evidence to support her story. Letters from the RSPCA inspector, for example, who went in to check on her cats. And if it
is
true that Annie was robbed, then it's also true that the police investigation into her death was flawed because it failed to take into account that someone took a small fortune off her either before or after she died."

"But who, for goodness' sake?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," I said, putting the press clippings back into their envelopes. "Someone fairly close to home is my guess ... someone who knew what was in there."

She canted her head to one side to study me closely with her bright, perceptive eyes. "What's your husband's view?"

"He doesn't have one," I said slowly. "The subject hasn't been mentioned in our house for twenty years."

She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"No need to be," I told her gruffly. "This is my project, not his."

Did she think "project" was an inappropriate word? "It's not your fault Annie died," she said with sincerity. "You've nothing to feel guilty about."

"I don't."

Perhaps she didn't believe me. Perhaps she saw a contradiction between my apparent composure and the evidence of obsession in my lap. "No one escapes justice," she said, dropping her hand to pick up one of mine and rubbing it gently between hers. "It may not be a justice we can see or understand, but the punishment is always appropriate."

"I expect you're right," I agreed, "but I'm not interested in abstract punishment. I want the kind I can
see
... the eye for an eye ... the pound of flesh."

"Then you'll be disappointed," she told me. "There's no joy-in causing pain ... however worthy the motive."

I had no answer to that except to return the pressure of her fingers. It was acknowledgment of a sort and to that extent it mollified her, but worry remained etched around her eyes until I left.
 

Family correspondence-dated 1999

CURRAN HOUSE
Whitehay Road
Torquay
Devon

Wednesday, July 28 1999