War Damage (18 page)

Dorothy watched and waited. Most of her time in the consulting room was spent in watchful silence. After her previous session with Terence, she'd said to a colleague in the coffee room, ‘Terence Cole wants to kill his father.' For Dorothy took it for granted that all toddlers were thwarted murderers in the seething cauldron of love, hate and incest that was the family.

Mrs Cole looked up listlessly as Dorothy led Terence into the waiting room.

‘Have you been a good boy today?'

‘He's not here to be good, Mrs Cole. He's here to understand his feelings.'

Dorothy watched the departing mother and child, Terence banging about in his usual defiant way, never holding hands, clearly not ‘with' his mother, who in turn ignored her son, even when he attempted to stand on one of the plant pots in the lobby, nearly bringing it crashing to the ground. Dorothy knew the woman was depressed, and the social worker had told her about the silent father who never mentioned what he'd seen at the battle of Arnhem.

All these silences, after the war. Everything back in its box, like the toys at the end of the session.

As Dorothy turned to go back to her room, the receptionist made a face and jerked her head surreptitiously in the direction of a man seated near the waiting-room door. ‘He wants to see you. He's a policeman.' She spoke in an undertone, as though the information were vaguely indecent.

The young man stood up as she came up to him. He was about thirty, eager, yet guarded. He apologised for intruding on her working time, but he needed to talk to her in connection with the investigation into the death of Frederick Buckingham.

‘I have about a quarter of an hour before my next appointment.' She led him back to her consulting room. He looked round with interest and sat down in the seat near the window towards which she gestured and which was placed at an angle to her own. Here she interviewed parents and older patients; the toys and sandpit were nearer the door. ‘How can I help you?'

‘It's about the death of Freddie Buckingham. The afternoon of the night he was murdered, Mr Buckingham had been at a party you also attended.'

Dorothy watched him.

‘We're asking all the guests if they had any idea what he was planning to do after he left. We've been told he left on his own, but did he mention anything, say anything that might give us a clue?'

Dorothy stared silently in front of her. She had tried several times since Regine had warned her the police might want to talk to her, to remember what had happened during the party. It was distressing to find one had forgotten so much. ‘It's difficult at a party, isn't it. You talk to one person and then another, I can remember more about what I talked about than what other people were doing and saying. I hardly spoke to Freddie anyway. I didn't know him well. A group was gathered round him, I was on the edge of it at one point … quite a few of us had been to the opera, to see Schwarzkopf, you know. But after that I wasn't with him at all.' She was trying to visualise the shifting human kaleidoscope of that afternoon. ‘I'm not very fond of parties, they always seem to be the same. The only time – well, I was talking to Reggie, and Freddie came up to us. I had a feeling he wanted to get her on his own, so I went to talk to someone else.'

‘And how did he seem?'

‘Oh, Freddie's always the same. Very well defended.'

Murray frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?'

Dorothy smiled. ‘Defended. That's a term we psychoanalysts use. What I mean is, Freddie's flamboyant manner was a mask, psychological armour, it defended him from real intimacy with other people and it prevented other people from
really
getting to know him. It was a kind of false persona, a false self. At one level it worked because it was amusing and people liked him, but men like him pay a price in terms of inner loneliness.'

‘You mean he wasn't very happy?'

‘I don't think he'd have seen it like that.'

‘But he didn't have any enemies?'

‘I'm sure he had enemies! When I say people liked him, I meant at this sort of superficial, party level. But theatrical circles are full of rivalries and hatreds, or so I'm told. And Freddie could be quite spiteful too, at times. I've heard him tell some really very cruel anecdotes – merely amusing to him, I'm sure, part of his performance, but yes, I'm sure he had enemies.' At once she regretted her words, because she could see that the detective had latched on to them, and she did not actually know of anyone who might have harboured murderous thoughts towards the dead photographer. Quickly she added: ‘But by that I don't mean that anyone was seriously out to kill him. I should have thought that would be most unlikely. The fact is, I really know very little about him. He was Reggie's friend, not mine. In fact she was quite seduced by him. Of course, as a homosexual, his relations with women were defective. Homosexuals are full of hatred – there's a lot of killing there, somewhere.'

‘
Killing
?'

‘Oh, not literally. But homosexual men have never got over unconsciously wanting to kill the father and have sole rights over the mother. The result is their actual relations with real women are based on a fantasy.'

These ideas were too outlandish for Murray to grapple with, but unable to resist an opportunity of talking about Regine, he said: ‘Mrs Milner was very upset – his death was a great blow.'

‘It's very inconvenient for her. He attracted people she wanted to meet to her Sundays. Her social life will suffer.'

Murray protested. ‘But she was genuinely distraught.'

Dorothy smiled enigmatically. ‘Reggie is one of those women who doesn't really
believe
in homosexuality. They think that their sexual attraction is such that it is capable of converting even the most confirmed invert.'

Murray stared at her. He longed to ask more, but her strange notions were making him feel quite angry. She used impossible language and her remarks about Mrs Milner were gratuitously offensive.

Noticing his reaction to her words, she added: ‘I shouldn't have said that. Don't misunderstand me. Regine Milner's my friend and of course she's enormously upset. It was a terrible thing to happen.'

‘But you're saying someone might have wanted to kill him. Do you have any idea who?'

‘I'm not really saying that, Sergeant Murray. I'm simply stating the obvious, that men like that attract hostility for a variety of reasons.'

‘Well, we know Mr Buckingham did, don't we,' said Murray crossly.

‘I suppose it's all very frustrating, the investigation, I mean,' said Dorothy, observing him closely. ‘It isn't the obvious solution, then, that Freddie Buckingham was murdered by a thief or someone he'd encountered casually for sex?'

‘We haven't ruled it out.'

‘Have you talked to Vivienne Hallam? She knew him very well, though I think they didn't see so much of each other any more. People say she used to be absolutely devoted to him. When I say that men like Freddie invite hostility, I didn't mean they don't arouse devotion too. That's destructive too, of course, to lavish love on an individual who is incapable of returning it. That sort of love can turn to hatred in the end.'

Murray uncrossed and recrossed his legs as he struggled with a half-formed idea. ‘As a psychologist, Dr Redfern—'

‘I'm not a psychologist,' said Dorothy repressively. ‘I'm a psychiatrist, that is to say I am medically trained; and I am also a trained psychoanalyst.'

Murray apologised, but he had no idea what the differences were. ‘You observe people, behaviour, you help people with … people who have problems with their nerves. I was hoping you'd be able to give us some insights into who might have had a motive – in this case.' He petered out rather at the end, as he saw her almost satirical expression, amused and sceptical, yet at the same time somehow disapproving.

‘I already have, haven't I?' she said enigmatically.

The telephone rang. ‘That means my next patient has arrived, I'm afraid.'

He was dismissed.

Murray walked back towards the tube. He hadn't taken to Dorothy. She reminded him somehow of the way the clergy talked, taking themselves so very seriously as if they were preaching to you from a higher plane. He puzzled over what she'd said, but he couldn't make head or tail of it. She'd almost hinted that the ballet dancer had hated the queer. When love turns to hate – that could certainly be a motive. But it was ridiculous to think of the famous dancer gunning him down on the Heath. And then there were Noel Valentine's remarks about Carnforth … and Carnforth and Kenneth Barker were both with the blackshirts …

eighteen

R
EGINE, ARRIVING LATE
, looked round the crowded Army and Navy Stores restaurant and saw Cynthia already seated in a corner. Waitresses in olive green frocks with white parlourmaids' aprons and caps hurried between the tables.

Regine relinquished her new coat – purchased with Mrs Havelock's coupons: nigger brown velour trimmed with black astrakhan at the collar, cuffs and pockets – to the manageress and sat down beside her friend.

‘I'm sorry I'm late. What's happened?' For Cynthia's phone calls had been urgent.

Cynthia was marble calm.

Evesham – that red bicycle – how Cynthia wobbled along the track to the sheds where they worked … you turned off the old Evesham road … lost happiness never returns … who had said that … Cynthia had been so kind, so soothing then, when Sergei went away …

‘Ernie's all caught up in this Sidney Stanley affair at the ministry. It's all over the papers now, every day, it never stops.'

Scandal was needed more than ever when life was so drab. It was drama, excitement, the sleazy comedy of human frailty, and, best of all, the spectacle of the powerful being caught with their trousers down. It was a glorious respite from the dull anxiety of life in Austerity Britain, where day after day the news lurched from the atom bomb to black-market petrol, from the diminishing meat ration to the communist menace, between gigantic horror and petty controls, all equally beyond one's power to change.

‘He's wined and dined ministers, arranged deals, promised American loans, God knows what else. And now they're saying there've been all sorts of irregularities within the department, that Stanley's been involved in bribery, it's something to do with paper allocations for some football pools firm.' As she spoke Cynthia was becoming less calm. ‘Ernie's completely innocent, of course, he had nothing to do with that, but the awful thing is he's somehow got involved. I think Ernie may have been foolish, he accepted meals from this – this
spiv
, and then – well, he somehow let slip that we were going away for the weekend. He should never have mentioned it – I suppose he was worried, preoccupied, he's so overworked, you know, but – well anyway, Stanley recommended a hotel outside Exeter, very quiet, out of the way, on Dartmoor, actually, it was lovely, but when we got there, we discovered it had all been paid for. By Sidney Stanley. Can you imagine! There's proof, it's all recorded. It could come out in the press at any moment – any day. And now there's this special tribunal, to look into the whole thing, headed by some judge – Lynskey – Ernie's terrified they'll turn up the hotel bill – but he didn't know
anything
about it, he didn't
want
Stanley to pay for it –'

Regine was appalled, yet thrilled, as the words tumbled out. So they'd even been away together! If only Freddie were here to gossip with.

‘He's usually so cautious.' And for a moment Cynthia looked happy. Perhaps she thought the huge risk was proof of love. Perhaps it was. But Cynthia's smile faded. She leaned forward, lowering her quiet, melodious voice still further: ‘And now Ernie's being blackmailed.'

The steely waitress hovered. Cynthia opted for fish pie.

Regine said: ‘Oh, Cynthia – don't have that. It'll be snoek or whalemeat. I'm going to have a nut cutlet. Much safer.'

‘The letter came last week,' said Cynthia slowly. ‘Ernie was to send money to a post office box address. Cash.'

‘Did he?'

‘I said he should go to the police, but he felt it was best to pay, he said he wanted to protect me, didn't want my name dragged through the mud.'

Nor his, thought Regine cynically. ‘If it came out that you were his mistress it'd mean the end of his career, wouldn't it.'

Cynthia said in a low voice: ‘Now with this other scandal it may come out anyway and it will all seem doubly, triply bad – that he took a bribe to entertain his
mistress
.'

‘D'you think … could it have been Stanley himself? Could he be the blackmailer?'

Cynthia frowned: ‘I don't know … blackmail is a different sort of thing, isn't it, from being a con man, spiv, whatever he is. But you know, it's not just us.'

‘You mean
other people
are being blackmailed?'

‘No, no, I mean it isn't just about our personal situation. Ernie's devastated because of what it'll do to the government. You know how the Tories are always going on and on about bureaucracy and controls, how they say that's what socialism is, all petty rules and regulations, that Labour's all about priggish puritans wanting to spoil everyone's fun. Of course it's nonsense, but if they're shown to be taking what amounts to bribes, and breaking the rules the Board of Trade was specifically set up to protect – that's what the department's about, you see, to ensure fair play in a time of shortages – but now it'll look as though it's one rule for ordinary folk, while people like him can break the rules with impunity. Only he didn't mean to break the rules. He didn't even realise he was breaking the rules. You do see? It's not just a case of misconduct or foolishness; it's everything he's built his life on.'

Regine couldn't help feeling that the minister had been at the very least naive – the mounting government scandals seemed due to thoughtless, silly accidents or gullible politicians, rather than deliberate wrongdoing or malice. But that was irrelevant now. ‘You have to go to the police,' she said.

‘Ernie won't hear of it.'

‘I could talk to the detective, the younger one, you know, who's investigating the – the Freddie business. He really is quite kind and sympathetic.'

‘No! Regine – don't do that. Don't tell anyone. Please! What earthly good would that do? It'd only make matters worse.'

Regine did not see how matters could be much worse for the adulterous couple, especially for Cynthia. ‘Just informally. He might have some idea of something you could do, some way of approaching the situation.'

Cynthia shook her head. ‘I'd much rather you didn't.'

Regine tried to look on the bright side. ‘Perhaps from your point of view it could even be better this way. If it weren't for his career Ernie could leave his wife and have a fresh start.'

Cynthia pressed her lips together. Her marble calm was cracking and Regine was afraid she was going to cry. ‘He doesn't
want
a fresh start. The Labour Party means everything to him!'

Regine put out a hand, touched Cynthia's arm. ‘Have you told him about the baby yet?'

Cynthia flinched away from her friend's touch. ‘I haven't seen much of him since all this blew up. I have to pick the right moment, and he's so worried—'

‘It's four months now. It'll begin to show soon.' Sixteen weeks; now it really was too late to do anything about it; but Cynthia was determined anyway. ‘Cynthia – I'm so sorry. But however worried he is you
have
to tell him. And it would be much better if he did go to the police about the letters. It's separate from whatever's happening at his ministry. It might even
help
,' Regine added, ‘because it shows someone's determined to damage him, that he has enemies. And if he knows about your condition he'll have to make a choice.'

Cynthia shook her head. ‘That's just what I don't want. I don't want him to have to choose.'

Regine said: ‘Whatever you decide, I'll help you.' But she felt completely impotent. Cynthia would need money, but how would she ever be able to persuade Neville to stump up any cash? He hadn't inherited Lydia's fortune in order to support fallen women.

The waitress set down their plates of food. Regine poked her cutlet. She hadn't meant to, but she blurted it out: ‘Eugene has turned up.'

Cynthia looked completely blank. ‘Eugene?'

‘You know – my Shanghai husband.'

For a moment astonishment displaced Cynthia's anxiety. ‘But he's
dead
!'

‘He isn't. He's come back. And the awful thing is –' And the frightful confession of bigamy tumbled out.

Cynthia's faint frown was puzzled rather than disapproving. ‘I don't understand. Why didn't you wait just those few extra months?'

Even now, Regine hadn't quite told the truth. It had been more than six months. She should have waited a whole year more. ‘I don't know,' she said. ‘He wasn't actually reported missing, but it didn't seem to matter then – you know, in the war, we were all a bit more impulsive, don't you think?' (But not Cynthia, not then.) ‘Of course I thought he was dead. He was a – an adventurer, Cynthia, and the Japs had taken over, and he was always sailing close to the wind, he'd have done something stupid, got himself killed – you don't know what he was like. And also, well, I wasn't sure Neville would come up to scratch to begin with – there was that woman at the War Office who was after him too, don't you remember, so when he did propose …'

Cynthia smiled. ‘You're impatient, Reggie. You don't like waiting for things.' She added: ‘I don't mean you're greedy. I think you always think things will slip away, so you grab …'

Regine felt her face hot, thinking of Charles; greedy there, too, seizing the moment, another painful mistake … ‘I've met Eugene once. I thought that might be the end of it, but he insisted on seeing me again – it's as if it's a game to him – he thinks it's amusing. At the same time there's something desperate about him.'

‘Don't you think you ought to take legal advice?'

‘Hilary Jordan's our solicitor. I can hardly confide in him!'

‘You could go to someone else.'

‘Perhaps he'll go back to Ireland soon. He says he's going to. And he hasn't threatened to tell Neville or anything, it's just that … he scares me. He's so shabby now, on his uppers, you know.'

Cynthia wiped her lips with her napkin. ‘Yes. Shabbiness would scare you, wouldn't it, Reggie.'