Wolf to the Slaughter (7 page)

‘And good riddance. I couldn’t take another one on, dear, not with Mr Grover laid up. Linda and me have got enough on our hands as it is.’ So that was her name, Linda. Drayton turned away from Ghosty Worlds. Mrs Grover looked at him indifferently. ‘Yes?’

‘
Standard
, please.’

There was only one left and that in the rack outside the shop by the advertisement case. Drayton followed her out and paid for his newspaper on the doorstep. He would never go back in there, inefficient, ill-mannered lot! Perhaps he never would have done and his life would have pursued its ordered, uninterrupted course towards its goal. He lingered only for a moment. The lamp had come on and his eyes were caught by a familiar name on one of the cards. Margolis, Quince Cottage, and beneath a plea for a charwoman. The door opened and Linda Grover came out. Even so quickly can one catch the plague . . .

She was as tall as he and her short grey dress made her look taller. The damp wind blew the stuff against her body, showing the shape of her little breasts and the long slender thighs. She had a small head set on a thin neck and her pale hair was drawn back so tightly that it pulled the skin and stretched wide the smooth dove-coloured eyebrows. He had never seen a girl so completely clothed look so naked.

She opened the card case, removed one and replaced it with another. ‘Raining again,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where it all comes from.’ An ugly voice, half-Sussex, half-Cockney.

‘The sky,’ said Drayton. That was the only answer to such a stupid remark. He could not imagine why she had bothered to speak to him at all, unless she had seen him that night and was covering embarrassment.

‘Very funny.’ Her fingers were long and the hand had a wide octave span. He observed the bitten nails. ‘You’ll get soaked standing there,’ she said.

Drayton put up his hood. ‘How’s the boyfriend?’ he asked conversationally. Her reaction pleased him. He had flicked her on the raw.

‘Is there one?’ Her ugly accent grated on him and he told himself it was this and not her proximity which made him clench his hands as he stood looking at the cards offering prams for sale and council flats to be exchanged.

‘A good-looking girl like you?’ he said, turning sharply to face her. It was not Mann or Durrell, just standard verbal practice, the first preliminary love play. ‘Get away.’

Her smile began very slowly and developed with a kind of secrecy. He noticed that she smiled without showing her teeth, without parting her lips, and it devastated him. They stood looking at each other in the rainy dusk. Drizzle spattered the tiers of newspapers. Drayton shifted his gaze rudely and deliberately back to the glass case.

‘You’re very interested in those cards, I must say,’ she said sharply. ‘What’s so fascinating about a load of second-hand stuff?’

‘I shouldn’t mind it being second-hand,’ he said, and when she blushed he knew she had seen him witness that kiss.

A charwoman with ginger hair. It might be. Everything pointed that way. Mrs Penistan seemed to fill the requirements. She had cleaned for Anita Margolis, why should she not also clean for Mrs Harper of Waterford Avenue? A woman who lived in unsalubrious Glebe Road might steal paper from one employer to write anonymous letters about another. In Glebe Road they were no strangers to crime, even to murder. A woman had been killed down there only last year. Monkey Matthews had once lived there and it was behind one of these squat stuccoed façades that he had mixed up sugar and sodium chlorate to make his bomb.

Burden tapped smartly on the door of the small terraced house. A light came on, a chain was slipped, and before the door opened he saw a little sharp face peering at him through the glass panel.

‘Mrs Penistan?’

Her mouth snapped open like a spring trap and there came forth a voluble stream of words. ‘Oh, here you are at last, dear. I’d nearly given you up. The Hoover’s all ready for you.’ She produced it, an enormous, old-fashioned vacuum cleaner. ‘I reckon it’s a bit of grit caught up in the motor. My boys don’t care what muck they bring in on their shoes. Won’t be a long job, will it?’

‘Mrs Penistan, I haven’t come to service your cleaner. I’m not a . . .’

She peered at him. ‘Not a Jehovah’s Witness, I hope?’

‘A police officer.’ They sorted it out, Mrs Penistan laughing shrilly. Even in her own home, she still wore her hat. The hair which showed under its brim was not ginger but grey. You could neither describe her as middle-aged, nor showily dressed. In addition to the pudding basin hat, she wore a cross-over sleeveless overall, patterned in mauve and black, over a green cardigan. Burden thought she was approaching seventy.

‘You won’t mind coming in the kitchenette, will you, dear? I’m getting me boys’ tea.’ On the cooker chips were frying. She lifted out the wire basket, replenished it with a fresh mound of cut wet potatoes. ‘How about a nice cuppa?’

Burden accepted the offer and when the tea came it was hot and strong. He sat down on a grubby chair at the grubby table. The frowsty appearance of the place surprised him. Somehow he expected a charwoman’s house to be clean, just as a bank manager’s account should always be in the black.

‘Smith?’ she said. ‘No, it doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Fitzwilliam?’

‘No, dear. There was a Mr Kirkpatrick. Would it be him?’

‘It might be.’ Knowing Margolis, it very well might be.

‘Lives in Pomfret somewhere. Funny you should ask about him because it was on account of him I left.’

‘How was that, Mrs Penistan?’

‘I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you. Missing, you said? Well, it don’t surprise me. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d done her in like he said he would.’

‘He did, did he?’

‘Threatened her in my hearing. D’you want to hear about it?’

‘I do indeed, but first I’d like to hear about her, what you thought of her, that kind of thing.’

‘She was a nice enough girl, mind, no side to her. First day I came I called her Miss and she just screamed out laughing. “Oh, Mrs P., darling,” she says, “you call me Ann. Everyone calls me Ann”. One of the free and easy ones she is, takes things as they come. Mind you, they’ve got money, got wads of it, but they’re not always free with it, that kind. The clothes she give me, you wouldn’t believe. I had to let most of them go to my granddaughter, being a bit past wearing them trouser suits and skirts up to me navel.

‘She’d got her head screwed on the right way, mind. Very sharp way she’d got with the tradesmen. She always bought the best and she liked to know what she was getting for her money. You’d have to get up early in the morning to put anything over on her. Different to him.’

‘Mr Margolis?’

‘I know it’s easy to say, but I reckon he’s mental. All of a year I was there and he never had a soul come to see him. Paint, paint, paint, all the blessed day long, but when he’d done you couldn’t see what it was meant to be. “I wonder you don’t get fed up with it,” I says to him once. “Oh, I’m very fecund, Mrs Penistan,” he says, whatever that may mean. Sounded dirty to me. No, his mind’s affected all right.’ She piled the chips on to two plates and began cracking eggs which she sniffed suspiciously before dropping them into the pan.

Burden had just begun to ask her about Kirkpatrick’s threats when the back door opened and two large bull-necked men in working clothes came in. Were these the boys who didn’t care what they brought in on their feet? Both looked years older than Burden himself. With a nod to their mother, they tramped across the kitchen, taking no notice at all of her visitor. Perhaps they also concluded that he had come to service the vacuum cleaner.

‘Hang on a minute, dear,’ said Mrs Penistan. Aplate in each hand, she disappeared into the living room. Burden finished the last of his tea. Presently one of the boys came back for the teapot, followed by his mother, now all smiles.

‘You can’t get a word out of them till they’ve got a meal inside them,’ she said proudly. Her son ignored her, marched off, banging doors behind him. ‘Now, dear, you wanted to know about Mr Kirkpatrick. Let’s see, where are we now? Friday. It would have been last Wednesday week. Mr Margolis had gone down to Devon for a painting holiday. I come in a couple of days before and I says to her, “Where’s your brother, then?” “Dartmoor,” she says, and
that
I could believe, though Broadmoor was more his mark.’ She let out a shrill laugh and sat down opposite Burden, her elbows on the table. ‘Well, two days later on the Wednesday there comes a knock at the door in the afternoon. “I’ll go,” she says and when she opens the door there’s this Kirkpatrick. “Good afternoon,” she says, sort of cool but in ever such a funny way I can’t describe. “Good afternoon,” he says and they just stand there looking at each other. Anyway, as I say, there’s no side to her and she introduces me very nice. “Penistan?” he says. “That’s a real local name. We’ve got some Penistans living opposite us in Pomfret,” and that’s how I know where he come from. Well, I was getting on with cleaning the silver so I went back into the kitchenette.

‘No more than five minutes later I hear them go upstairs. Must be going to look at his paintings, I thought in my ignorance. There was paintings all over the place, dear, even in the bathroom. About half an hour after that they come down again and I’m beginning to wonder what’s in the air. Then I heard them start this arguing.

‘ “For God’s sake don’t drool all over me, Alan,” she says sharpish. “Love”, she says, raising her voice. “I don’t know what that is. If I love anyone it’s Rupert.” Rupert being her mental brother. Well, this Alan, he flies right off the handle and he starts shouting. All sorts of horrible expressions he used as I couldn’t repeat. But she didn’t turn a hair. “I’m not ending anything, darling,” she says, “You can go on having what you’ve just had upstairs.” I can tell you, dear, all the blood rushed to my head. This is the last time you set foot in here, Rose Penistan, I says to myself. My boys are very particular. They wouldn’t want me going where there was immorality. I was going to march right in on her and that Kirkpatrick and tell her there and then when I heard him say, “You’re asking to get yourself killed, Ann. I might do it myself one of these fine days.”

‘Anyway, the upshot was that he just went off in a huff. I could hear her calling out after him, “Don’t be so silly, Alan, and don’t forget we’ve got a date Tuesday night.” ’

‘Tuesday?’ Burden interjected sharply. ‘Would that have been last Tuesday?

‘Must have been. People are funny, aren’t they, dear? As business-like as they come, she is, and good too in a sort of way. Collected for Oxfam and the sick animals, read the newspaper from cover to cover and very hot about what she called injustice. Just the same, she was carrying on proper with this Kirkpatrick. It’s a funny old world.’

‘So you left?’

‘That very day. After he’d gone she come out into the kitchenette just as if nothing had happened. All cool and serene she was, smiling and talking about the horrible weather her poor Rupert was having down on the Moor. I don’t know what it is, dear, but I reckon that’s what they mean when they talk about charm. I couldn’t have it out with her. “I’ll finish out the week,” was all I said, “and then I’ll have to give up. This place is getting too much for me.” And I never spoke a truer word.’

‘Do you work anywhere else, Mrs Penistan? Stowerton, for instance?’

‘Oh, no, dear. It wouldn’t be worth my while going all that way. Not that my boys wouldn’t fetch me in the van. Always thinking of their Mum, they are.’ She accompanied him into the hall where they encountered one of her sons, returning to the kitchen with his empty plate. This he deposited silently on the table. Although he still took no notice at all of his mother, beyond pushing her aside as he passed through the doorway, the meal he had ‘got inside him’ had effected a slight improvement in his temper, for he remarked gloomily to Burden:

‘Nasty night.’

Mrs Penistan smiled at him fondly. She lugged the vacuum cleaner out of the way and opened the front door on to squally rain. Strange how it always came on to pour in the evenings, Burden thought. As he walked along Glebe Road with his head lowered and his collar turned up, he reflected on the awkwardness of questioning Kirkpatrick when they had no body and no more proof of death than an anonymous letter.

Two men called Geoffrey Smith lived in Kingsmarkham, one in Stowerton and two more in Sewingbury. The only dark-haired one was six feet two; the only one under thirty-five had a blond beard; none possessed a black car. The enquiry had been fruitless, as unsatisfactory as the search of Margolis’s house. His sister’s note had not come to light, but then neither had anything else which might suggest foul play.

‘Except the five hundred quid,’ said Burden.

‘A very nice sum to go on holiday with,’ Wexford said firmly. And then, with less certitude, ‘Have we worried Margolis in vain, Mike?’

‘Hard to say whether he’s worried or not. I don’t understand the fellow, sir. One minute I think he’s pulling my leg and the next – well, he’s just like a child. I daresay that’s what they mean by genius.’

‘Some say there’s a knife edge between it and madness, others that it’s an infinite capacity for taking pains.’

If there was anything Burden did understand it was taking pains. ‘It looks as if he pours that paint and muck on like you or I might slop sauce on fish and chips,’ he said. ‘All those paintings are beyond me. I’d say they were just another way of conning the public. How much do they charge to go into the Tate Gallery?’

Wexford roared with laughter. ‘Nothing, as far as I know. It’s free.’ He tightened the thin shiny rag he called a tie. ‘You remind me of that remark of Goering’s,’ he said. ‘Whenever I hear the word culture I reach for my gun.’

Burden was offended. He went out into the corridor, looking for someone on whom to vent his temper. Bryant and Gates, who had been chatting up the sergeant, tried to look busy as soon as they saw him. Not so Mark Drayton. He was standing a little apart from the others, staring down at his feet and apparently deep in thought, his hands in the pockets of his duffel coat. The sight of his black hair sticking out over the hood lining inflamed Burden still further. He marched up to Drayton, but before he could speak, the young man said casually: