Murder in Time Page 8

  ‘The following September I enrolled at Imperial College to read sciences. By the time I got my degree, I wanted to help the poor creatures who’d wrecked my life. So I went on to teacher training and found that I was better suited to that than I’d expected.’

  ‘Your mother approved?’

  ‘No, but by that time she had a new set of friends to go about with, and I had grown a protective shell. Daphne and I ended up in bed together one night, and there was a wedding rather too hastily arranged for my mother’s wishes, but there … we married in haste and repented at leisure.’

  ‘While Vera—’

  ‘I’d been completely taken in by her, hadn’t I? I’d thought she was a virgin, waiting for a special occasion to sleep with me, but she didn’t even wait to see if I was all right when the gang came, but had it off with whoever fancied her in the garden. That very evening! While I was trying to deal with the intruders and then with getting Daphne and Sam to the hospital …’

  Ellie opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn’t listening.

  ‘Apart from anything else, if she’d been going to entertain other boys, she should have taken precautions. I could have told her Abdi wouldn’t take her seriously. Mrs Quicke, I really don’t want to talk about this any more. Having to face up to what she was really like half killed me in the early days. I should have listened to my mother when she said Vera was trouble, but I thought I knew better. I believed in her.’

  ‘Who told you what happened?’

  ‘Raff. He was there, saw it all.’ He shuddered. ‘I couldn’t believe it at first. I rang her, but she wouldn’t come to the phone. Ashamed, I suppose. Her father told me she didn’t want to see me again. I was devastated. Couldn’t believe it. But when Abdi confirmed that he, too … That was the final straw. I told myself it was fortunate I’d found out in time, that it would never have worked, her and me. Eventually, I decided to draw a line under the past, not allow myself to think about it any more.

  ‘It’s been twelve long years since then, Mrs Quicke. We are not the same people. I honestly don’t think the real killer can be found after all this time. I can’t confirm that Vera had left long before my father was killed, so leave me out of it. And now, if you please, I have a pile of paperwork to do.’

  ‘One question. Which of your friends brought the date-rape drug to the party?’

  ‘What? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Believe me, someone did.’

  ‘Really? Well, if anyone … I suppose one of Lenny’s lot.’

  ‘It was someone who was hiding from Lenny’s lot in the garden. Someone you’d invited to the party.’

  ‘Ridiculous. None of our crowd was into drugs.’

  ‘You said you knew drugs were being sold at the school gates. So which of your guests brought some to the party?’

  He froze.

  If she’d waved her hand in front of his face, he wouldn’t have responded.

  He knew.

  A twitch of an eyebrow. No, he didn’t know. But he’d guessed …?

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I have no idea.’ Deliberately.

  ‘You could find out?’

  ‘Are you trying to make out that Vera was drugged that night? She’s not really claiming that, is she? Everyone knows she allowed several boys to pleasure her—’

  ‘I repeat, who fed you that story?’

  ‘Why, it’s common knowledge. Raff said. Later, Gail confirmed it, and Abdi, of course. I met him at someone else’s birthday party soon after. A black tie affair, rather different from mine. He boasted of how much Vera had enjoyed his attentions. Mind you, he ought to have helped her out when she had his baby, but—’

  ‘Abdi was a particular friend of yours?’

  A stare. ‘Not particularly, no. But he wouldn’t lie. Why would he?’

  ‘It was rape. Vera was very shaken when she got out of the house and took shelter in the changing hut by the pool with some of your other guests. Someone passed her a drink. The next thing she knew, she was gazing up at the stars, in pain and distress. She’d been raped. Yes, Abdi was one of those who took part in it. He says they were queuing up to enjoy her. He says she invited them to pleasure her. She says she knew nothing of it. Who would you believe?’

  He didn’t want to consider that. He’d convinced himself that Vera had behaved like a whore, and he’d learned to live with the idea. He didn’t want to have that belief disturbed, because if he’d been wrong all this time …

  A horrified stare. ‘No, no. Surely not. She reverted to type, that’s all. I don’t mean to sound like a snob but, as my mother said, she came from a group who traded their virginity in early. I’d failed to protect her at the party, and so she let herself go, abandoned herself to the excitement, the drink, did what other girls of her type did.’

  ‘As you’ve already pointed out, she hadn’t taken any precautions before the party because she was waiting for a special date with you. She hadn’t expected to be raped! She had fought hard for the opportunity to go to university. So why would she risk everything that night?’

  He didn’t want to believe her. He shrugged. ‘How can I tell? Yes, she’d told me she was a virgin, but it’s obvious that was a lie. I was lucky to find out what she was really like before things got serious between us.’

  ‘You’d known her for years, and you really thought she would lie down for anyone?’

  He didn’t like that. Another shrug. ‘You say she was raped? She went to the police, I presume?’

  ‘Her father beat her and kept her in. He was too ashamed to let it be known that his daughter had been raped. And so was she. For that reason, he wouldn’t bring the police into it.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. Her father told me she never wanted to see me again.’

  ‘He lied, of course. He wanted the match as little as your mother did. Vera didn’t realize she was pregnant for some time. When he found out, her father disowned her. Sold up, moved away, left her homeless and pregnant. When the baby was born and she realized whose it must be, she asked Abdi for help. He refused. She might have had an abortion. I think many girls might have done, in her position. But no, she kept the baby, worked long hours at anything she could find, mostly cleaning jobs, and brought the boy up herself. Now Abdi wants the boy because he can’t sire another child. He’s threatening to produce someone who saw her killing your father, unless she gives Mikey to him.’

  A long, hard stare. He didn’t want to believe it. ‘That’s a good sob story, but—’

  ‘You need to check it out. Yes, do that. If it can be proved that Vera was out of it and could not have killed your father, it will at least get Abdi off her back.’

  She watched him weigh up the options. His eyelids flickered. His mouth firmed. He produced an almost genuine smile. ‘What a fertile imagination she has, to be sure. It almost makes me angry to hear it. You don’t really think one of my friends would have brought drugs to the party? And Abdi is a blackmailing villain? Mrs Quicke, really! No, no. You’ve been conned. Vera took a chance to have some fun, and it went wrong. Tough. But you can’t expect me to … And as to what happened to my father, so long ago … Well, we can leave that to the police, can’t we?’

  He was angry. Angry with himself, or angry that someone was trying to upset his long-held view of the past? He held on to a veneer of politeness, but only just. He picked up the cheque she’d brought him and put it down again. He said, ‘Thanks for the cheque, it was most kind of you to think of us. Have you an umbrella? It looks as if it might rain again.’

  He moved her towards the front door. She could feel his anger and, yes, his distress.

  She stopped in the doorway. ‘Don’t tear up that cheque, just because you’re angry with me. It’s not for you, but for your charity.’

  ‘As if I would.’ Another social smile. ‘I know a fairy godmother when I meet one.’

  Nicely put, meaning that he was in control of his temper in spite of her impertinent questions. Oh well. She said,
‘Thank you for the cup of tea.’ And, ‘Yes, it does look like rain again, doesn’t it?’

  He said, ‘Not that it’s any business of yours, but I’m seeing someone else at the moment.’

  ‘Someone suitable, I assume?’ She couldn’t help it. She knew she’d sounded sarcastic.

  ‘Quite.’ Showing his teeth.

  She stepped out on to the path and heard the door shut behind her. She decided to catch the bus to the Avenue and walk home from there. She rather thought she’d meddled to no good purpose. But there … you had to try to help people, didn’t you?

  Dan was right. There was no point ripping open old wounds. Maybe Vera had gone with the flow that night and … No, she had not! Vera was genuine.

  What a mess.

  How had the gang known that there would be drugs at the house? There must be a link there, if only she could see it.

  Well, if the gang had learned that the party was being held at a doctor’s house …? Yes, but who would have told them? Perhaps Vera might have some ideas on the subject. Who else might know? This Dr Gail? And Jack the Lad … Silly name.

  There were other people already waiting at the stop, so a bus might come along soon. Ellie tried to perch on a bench which was too high for her. Not for the first nor the hundredth time, she wished she were an inch or two taller. Had she her mobile phone with her? It was possible she’d left it … Ah, no. There it was. Switch on.

  Ellie considered most modern technology a field too far, but today it would have been useful to have had one of those gadgets which gave you the phone book and a map of town and GPS – whatever that might be, though she’d heard it was very useful if you were lost – though of course she wasn’t lost, sitting at the bus stop here in Perivale. However, it was no good wishing … and here she laughed at herself, because even if she’d bought one of those newfangled instruments, she wouldn’t know how to use it.

  An elderly woman next to Ellie leaned over. ‘Someone texted you, did they, dear? Sometimes I think those phones are more trouble than they’re worth. I keep telling my granddaughter not to text me, but will she listen? The number of times she’s told me how to do it, but what I say is, my fingers can’t manage all that dancing around at my age.’

  ‘I’m with you. I was trying to find someone called Jack who sells guitars, and to make an appointment with a Dr Gail Something, but I haven’t the phone numbers with me.’

  ‘Jack the Lad? Him that’s by North Ealing Station? Sells guitars, all sorts and music and stuff that the youngsters like, though I’ve heard he has some proper musicians go there, too. My grandson almost lives there, wants to form a group and play dates in the pub when he’s old enough. Shouldn’t think he’s good enough, myself, but what do I know about it?’

  ‘There really is someone called Jack the Lad?’

  ‘That’s the name of the shop. He’s a hippy type, know what I mean? Hair tied back and shoes down at the heel, though it’s mostly sandals even if it is winter. But, Dr Gail? I don’t know no Dr Gail. I’m with the surgery at the end here.’ She indicated an elderly man using a stick who was inching along the pavement towards them. ‘Here’s old Nick that lives two doors down from me. Nick, do you know where a Dr Gail Something hangs out? This lady needs to see her, urgent.’

  ‘Bail? I don’t know no Bail.’ He sank heavily on to the bench beside them.

  The woman raised her voice. ‘Doctor Gail, I said.’ And to Ellie, ‘Deaf as the proverbial.’

  ‘Doctor Gail Trubody?’ said the old man. ‘Why didn’t you say so? My sister goes to her. Posh practice, just off the Avenue. Seven or eight doctors, and you take your chance who you see.’

  ‘That’s the one in the new building, sticks out like a sore thumb, innit?’ The woman repeated the words to Ellie. ‘All the latest mod cons, but a steep ramp to get to it. Can’t be doing with ramps, myself.’

  ‘My sister likes it,’ said old Nick. ‘There’s a young doctor there she says would put a spring in the heart of a plastic doll, he he, heeee!’ He broke off in a paroxysm of coughing.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ellie, putting her phone away. This might be the right Dr Gail or it might not, but the bus was coming and she needed to get on it. This bus would take her to the Broadway, and from there she could catch another to North Ealing Station. What kind of man would carry the joke through into adult life?

  ‘JACK the LAD’.

  There it was, across the shop front. There was a guitar in the right-hand window. Not a classical guitar, but something in Day-Glo paint and sequins, which you couldn’t play without an amp, whatever that might be. The entire outfit was probably worth as much as a two-bedroom flat and would produce enough sound to deafen the total population of Ealing: man, woman and child. The guitar was posed in front of a huge poster, showing a man wearing very little except for some tattoos and a pair of tight jeans, surrounded by an adoring group of young teenage girls. The idea seemed to be that if you played this kind of guitar, you got the chicks thronging around you. Or were they called ‘groupies’ nowadays?

  In the left-hand window there was a miscellany of recorders, instruments for tiny tots, manuals and piles of CDs. The effect was one of a successful niche in the marketplace.

  Jack the Lad apparently knew what he was doing.

  Ellie entered. An earnest-looking youth was explaining to a pretty girl – fake blonde and piercings, but still pretty with it – that he needed something technical done to his instrument before Saturday. A youngish woman, possibly a music teacher, was trying out a classical guitar under the watchful eye of a middle-aged man. Ellie waited her turn to be served, observing that the shop was kept spick and span and there were even – thank the Lord – some chairs for customers to sit on. She sat.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He sounded doubtful. Hippy type, soulful brown eyes, lumber jacket over collarless shirt, and yes, sandals. This must be Jack. Except that he didn’t really look like a ‘Jack the Lad’. Something sharp was flickering at the back of those beautiful eyes.

  Remember, Ellie; this man is running a successful business. He may pretend to be an artless bohemian, but that is just a front.

  ‘I’m—’

  He nodded. He already knew who she was. Which meant he’d been warned to expect her. By Dan?

  ‘Come into my office,’ he said. ‘Tea or coffee?’

  A superficially untidy office, with a computer, a scanner and a printer, all in working order. This was no paperless office, as there were filing cabinets ranged along one wall.

  Sensible, thought Ellie, as both she and Thomas had experienced problems when they hadn’t kept up to date with paper records and their computers had broken down.

  There were two chairs, upright, and a tray containing equipment for tea and coffee sitting on top of a small fridge.

  One window looked on to the shop itself, so that whoever was in the office might observe what was happening there. Another window at the back provided a view of a large workshop, where an elderly man was doing something delicate to an antique mandolin. The workshop walls were hung with a variety of instruments, and several more were in pieces on the worktops. A thriving business, well run.

  She settled herself. ‘Tea, please.’ And then, ‘Dan rang to warn you?’

  SEVEN

  Jack was guarded in his tone. ‘Your visit came as a shock. After all this time. He’s not sure what to think, and neither am I. In some ways I wish you’d never gone to see him. Surely he’s suffered enough.’

  ‘And you?’

  He put the kettle on, concentrating, not looking at her. ‘I don’t like looking back. The last time I talked about it to him was when I gave a short statement to the police. I’d gone long before Dr McKenzie was killed.’

  ‘Did you tell Dan what happened to Vera, or mention it in your statement to the police?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. What good would it have done? I’m not sure I’m prepared to open up that old wound even now.’

  But he’d invited her into his office a
nd was making her a cup of tea. He was sending out contradictory signals: he was saying that he didn’t want to talk, and yet he was doing just that.

  He said, ‘When Dan rang me, he sounded all stirred up, not his usual imperturbable self. I hope you know what you’re doing, Mrs Quicke, throwing a grenade into people’s lives like this.’

  ‘Is that what I’m doing?’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to go back home and forget this, would you?’

  ‘No, and you don’t really want that, either, or you wouldn’t have invited me into your den.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Dan said you were to be taken seriously. I know who you are, of course. Lady Bountiful.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  He nodded. ‘Lady Bountiful. Good deeds get rewarded, if you’re pure of heart.’ His tone hovered on the edge of sarcasm. He was not meeting her eye. Or enjoying this. But he was going to be polite and, she hoped, he was going to talk. ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Milk, a little.’

  He handed her a mug of tea and made one for himself, too. And sat. Scratched his cheek. ‘Dan said Vera was being threatened by Abdi. Surely, that can’t be right.’ His eyes were anxious. Why?

  She said, ‘You remember Abdi?’

  A non-committal nod.

  ‘Did you like him? Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘“Like him?”’ A shrug. ‘I could take him or leave him. Not a particular mate of mine. “Seen him recently?” No. Our Abdi moves in different circles nowadays.’

  ‘Abdi wants Vera’s boy, because he can’t have any more children of his own. He’s paid a private investigator to check that the boy is his and proposes to buy him off her—’

  ‘What! But that’s … Surely not!’

  ‘Sorry. I exaggerated, didn’t I? He’s prepared to give Vera a certain sum of money by way of compensation for handing the boy over to him.’

  He stroked his chin. His eyes lit up with mischief. ‘From what I remember of her, she wouldn’t take kindly to—’