While Annie sat there with her mouth open, wondering what to say, Jackie slipped out through the door, and was gone.
79
Next morning, Tony was there with the Jag. She answered his knock, and he looked like he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, but here, talking to her.
‘Morning, Tone,’ she said.
He grunted. As always, he was immaculately dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit, white shirt and dark tie. Bald as a coot, ugly as sin and tanned to a turn, eighteen stones of muscle sporting twinkling gold crucifixes in each big cauliflower ear. He smelled good – some sandalwood-based aftershave. Once her staunchest supporter, he was looking at her now like he wanted to spit in her face.
Without a word he turned away from the door and led the way down to the car. He opened the back door, and she got in. Then he closed the door behind her, and slid behind the wheel.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
So that’s the way it’s going to be, she thought.
She told him the address, and without a word he edged the car out into the flow of traffic and drove her there.
‘Wait for me,’ she said when they arrived. Without waiting for a reply – she didn’t think she was going to get one anyway – she got out and went up the front path to the Foster household.
It was a neat little terrace, one of a row of identical houses, and the whiteness of the curtains and the pristine condition of the front step, the rampant health of the plants in the hanging baskets on either side of the door, all screamed that this was the home of someone who was careful to make a good impression on the outside world. Annie lifted the highly polished brass dolphin door-knocker and banged it, hard, twice. She waited. Half-hoped that Sarah Foster née Farrell would be out. Drains and radiators, she thought. Some people drained you – like Sarah and her charmless, repressive brother Nigel – and others radiated warmth, like Dolly.
But all too soon the door opened and there was Sarah, wearing a tobacco-brown knitted woollen skirt that had never been in fashion and never would be, a thin lambswool cardigan in a washed-out shade of lavender and a lemon-coloured blouse. She stared at Annie with a fixed and immobile expression.
‘Oh – it’s you,’ said Sarah, sounding neither pleased nor put out by it.
‘Can I come in?’ asked Annie.
‘What for?’
The woman had no social skills. No charm. No chutzpah. But this was Dolly’s sister and somewhere inside she must have a grain, a tiny seed, that resembled Dolly.
‘I’d like to talk to you. About Dolly,’ she said.
‘It’s not very convenient. I’ve had the police round asking questions, and people… ’
Jackie Tulliver would probably be one of those people, Annie guessed. Christ knows what this buttoned-up little article would make of him.
‘And if you don’t mind I would rather not discuss the subject any more.’ The thin voice, the repressive mouth, everything served to irritate Annie, but she ignored that, fought against it. She had to keep her tongue under control here, or she’d never even get to first base.
‘This is your sister we’re talking about,’ she reminded Sarah.
‘I know that.’ Two dull red spots appeared high up on the pallid cheeks.
‘Then spare me a few minutes, because I would like to know what was going on with her, what happened, how she came to be killed like she was.’
For a moment Annie thought Sarah was going to slam the door in her face. But that would show a bit of passion, a bit of feeling, and she didn’t think Sarah had it in her. Instead, she opened the door a little wider, then her hand apathetically dropped to her side. Without a word she turned and walked off along the hallway. Taking this for an invitation, Annie followed. She closed the front door behind her, and followed Sarah into a tiny pin-neat box of a kitchen.
‘You’d better sit down then,’ said Sarah gracelessly, seating herself at a tiny, old but clean grey-laminate kitchen table.
Annie sat down. It was dark in the kitchen, not much daylight seeping in through the north-facing window. The place felt chilly and smelled faintly musty, although outside it was supposed to be summer.
‘Thank you for this,’ said Annie. The woman wasn’t about to offer her any refreshments, and she was starting to read this bloodless little creature now; she couldn’t expect any warmth from her, not even a tiny bit.
Sarah shrugged. ‘Say what you’ve got to say,’ she said.
‘Had you seen Dolly recently?’ said Annie quickly, in case Sarah changed her mind and asked her to go.
‘No. We didn’t keep in touch.’
‘How about Nigel? Your brother?’
The thin mouth got even thinner. ‘Nigel wouldn’t lower himself. He knew what Dolly was.’
‘So your dad died in an accident on the railway,’ said Annie.
Sarah went pale but said nothing.
‘The driver of the engine that hit him, was he named?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘But did your family know who he was?’
‘I know nothing about any of this,’ said Sarah.
‘What about Dick, or Sandy?’
‘Dick’s abroad. New Zealand. I told you. And Sandy’s an invalid.’
‘In what way?’ Annie half-expected Sarah to tell her to mind her own business.
But Sarah said: ‘He was never strong. Had some strokes. He’s not much better than a vegetable.’
‘I’m sorry. What home’s he in?’
‘I don’t want you bothering him.’
‘I won’t bother him. Can you give me the name of the home?’
For a minute it looked as if Sarah was going to say no. Then she said: ‘Sunnybrook. It’s up Watford way.’ She gave Annie the name of the road. ‘But I don’t want you upsetting him. He’s not right. Don’t tell him about Dolly. He’s got troubles enough, without that.’
‘I won’t,’ said Annie. ‘Nigel said Dolly left home at thirteen. Did she not tell you she was going? She was the oldest, that right? And then there was Nigel, then you? Then Dick and Sandy?’
‘That’s right. Dolly didn’t tell anyone she was going. She was wild, Dolly. Bad to the bone, Dad always said. After she left us.’
‘He didn’t like her?’ It took a real effort on Annie’s part not to say that he had a damned nerve saying anything about Dolly, when he was such a low-life arsehole.
Sarah shrugged. ‘For a while she was his favourite. Then she went, and I was.’
The prim mouth lifted at the corners. This was a little victory to the woman, Annie could see that.
‘So you don’t know who the driver was, when your dad had the shunting accident? That must have been awful for the driver, that responsibility. Killing someone like that. You sure you don’t know his name?’
‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘I told you. I don’t.’
‘Didn’t you like Dolly?’ asked Annie.
‘She was all right. Until she went to the bad.’ The lips tightened again, assuming an irritating Puritanical look. ‘We’re a good Catholic family, always have been. For her to do things like that, disgusting things… well, we could never forgive anything like that. Excuse me a moment,’ said Sarah, and stood up and left the room.
Annie heard her go up the stairs, heard the landing boards creak, heard a door shut. She sat there and waited, looking around at this plain little kitchen and thinking how well it suited the woman who lived here. Sarah was married – so where was the husband? There were no photos on display. Maybe in the sitting room…?
There was movement upstairs and then Sarah came back down and into the kitchen again. She sat down and stared at Annie.