Nothing else caught his interest so he moved to the desk. The must-have Apple laptop was closed, but Patterson could see from the indicator light that it was hibernating rather than turned off. The latest iPod was connected to the computer, its headphones in a tangled bundle next to it. Patterson unplugged the computer from the mains, wrote an evidence receipt for it and tucked it under his arm. A quick glance round the room to confirm that he hadn’t missed anything obvious, then he went back downstairs.
Mrs Maidment had stopped crying. She sat upright, eyes on the floor, hands clenched in her lap, tears still glistening on her cheeks. Without lifting her eyes, she said, ‘I don’t understand how this could happen.’
‘None of us does,’ Patterson said.
‘Jennifer doesn’t lie about where she’s going,’ she said, her voice dulled and thickened by pain. ‘I know everybody thinks their kids don’t lie, but Jennifer really doesn’t. Her and Claire, they do everything together. They’re always here or at Claire’s house or out together. I don’t understand.’
Patel patted Mrs Maidment’s shoulder. ‘We’ll find out, Tania. We’ll find out what happened to Jennifer.’
Patterson wished he had her confidence. Heartsick and weary, he sat down and prepared to ask questions he suspected would mostly be in vain. Still, they had to be asked. And the answers weighed for truth and lies. Because there would be both. There always was.
CHAPTER 3
Carol hadn’t lied. The Sancerre was delicious, tangy with the taste of gooseberries, cool and crisp. Even so, Tony wasn’t in the mood for more than gentle sipping. If Carol was going to offer up information about his father in the spirit of a dog dropping a soggy newspaper at the feet of its human, he wanted to keep his wits about him.
Carol settled herself in the sofa opposite the armchair Tony had chosen. ‘So, don’t you want to know what I’ve found out about your father?’
Tony avoided her eyes. ‘He wasn’t my father, Carol. Not in any meaningful sense.’
‘Half of your genetic inheritance comes from him. Even the most behavioural of psychologists has to admit that counts for something. I thought you’d want to find out all you could about him.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine and smiled encouragingly at him.
Tony sighed. ‘I’ve managed to live all my life without knowing anything about my father except that he chose not to be in my life. If you hadn’t had your wits about you and stepped in when my mother was trying to cheat me out of what he left me in his will, I’d still be none the wiser.’
Carol gave a snort of laughter. ‘You make it sound like you wish I hadn’t stopped Vanessa ripping you off.’
He thought she’d seldom come up with a more inspired guess. But that day in the hospital when she’d stopped Vanessa in her twisted tracks, Carol had been looking out for what she thought were his best interests. To suggest that she’d inadvertently created more problems than she’d solved would only hurt her. And he didn’t want to do that. Not now. Not ever. ‘I’m not being ungrateful for what you did. I’m just not sure I want to know anything about him.’
Carol shook her head. ‘You just don’t want to dismantle all the defences you’ve built up over the years. But it’s OK, Tony. Vanessa might be a monster, but from what I’ve been able to find out, your father was the opposite. I don’t think there’s anything to be afraid of.’
Tony swirled the wine round his glass, his shoulders hunched defensively. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a bitter smile. ‘There’s got to be something, Carol. He walked away from me. And her, incidentally.’
‘Maybe he didn’t know about you.’
‘He knew enough about me to leave me a house and a boat and a wedge of cash.’
Carol considered. ‘If you’re going to take his money, I think you owe him something.’
She had a point, he thought. But if the price of maintaining his ignorance was giving his inheritance to charity, it might be worth paying. ‘I think he took a long time to make any contribution to what he owed me. I don’t think the money even begins to touch it. He left me with Vanessa.’ Tony put down his glass and clasped his hands tight. He spent much of his working life helping patients negotiate the treacherous shoals of their emotions. But all his listening had done nothing to ease the process for himself. Though he’d learned to construct the appropriate reactions for most social situations, he still didn’t trust himself to come up with the correct emotional responses in the highly charged context of personal relationships. If he was ever going to fail at what he called passing for human, this was where it would happen. And yet, Carol deserved more from him than silence or flippancy. He drew himself together, shoulders rigid. ‘You and me, we both know how fucked up I am. I don’t blame Vanessa for what she did to me. She’s as much a product of her environment and her genes as I am. But there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s a big part of the reason why I fit so badly in the world.’
‘I don’t think you’re such a bad fit,’ Carol said.
Kindness, he thought, trumping candour. ‘Maybe so, but you’ve had at least a bottle of wine tonight,’ he said, the attempt at humour too heavy-handed to survive the distance between them. She glared and he shrugged an apology. ‘He could have mitigated my mother’s impact and he didn’t. Money all these years later doesn’t begin to pay the debt.’
‘He must have had his reasons. Tony, he really does sound like a decent man.’
He got to his feet. ‘Not tonight. I’m not ready for this. Let me think about it, Carol.’
Her smile was forced. He knew her expressions in all their variety and he read the disappointment in this one. No matter that he’d helped her score success after success in her professional life; when it came to their personal relationship, he sometimes thought disappointment was all he’d ever left her with.
Carol emptied her glass. ‘Till the next time,’ she said. ‘It’ll keep.’
He sketched a little wave and made for the stairs that separated her basement flat from his house above. As he turned to say goodnight, he saw her smile soften. ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘Sooner or later, you’ll have to know.’
Alvin Ambrose wrestled his warrant card from the inside pocket of his jacket as he approached the house. He knew that his size, his colour and the fact that it was after ten o’clock would all conspire against him in the eyes of the people who lived in this 1970s ‘executive detached’. Better to have the ID front and centre when the door opened.
The man who answered the doorbell was frowning at his watch. Then he made great play of peering at Ambrose’s warrant card. ‘What time of night do you call this?’
Ambrose bit back the smart-arsed retort and said, ‘Mr David Darsie? Detective Sergeant Ambrose from West Mercia. I’m sorry to trouble you, but we need to speak to your daughter Claire.’
The man shook his head, sighing in an extravagant pantomime of incredulity. ‘I don’t believe this. Are you bothering us at this hour because Jennifer Maidment’s out late? It’s barely half past ten.’
Time to put the jerk in his place. ‘No, sir,’ Ambrose said. ‘I’m bothering you at this hour because Jennifer Maidment’s been murdered.’
David Darsie’s expression shifted from irritation to horror as swiftly as if he’d been slapped. ‘What? How can that be?’ He looked over his shoulder as if expecting some fresh nightmare to appear there. ‘Her mother only rang a while ago.’ He ran his hand over his thinning dark hair. ‘Jesus. I mean . . .’ He swallowed hard.
‘I need to talk to your daughter,’ Ambrose said, moving closer to the open door.