‘She looks older.’
‘That’s a large age difference.’
‘Jude is a young woman. She knows her own mind.’
‘She’s a girl.’
He gave a tiny, almost invisible shrug with one shoulder. ‘Power is what matters, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘The law is there to prevent the abuse of power. In our case, it’s irrelevant. As far as I’m concerned we’re both consenting adults.’
‘The fact remains that she’s a minor. You’re guilty of a criminal offence.’
For a brief moment, anxiety broke the surface. His face puckered. ‘Is that why I’m here?’
‘You’re here because her mother was killed.’
‘Look. I’m really sorry about that but I don’t see the connection.’
‘Did you ever meet Mrs Lennox?’
‘I saw her. I didn’t meet her.’
‘She didn’t know about you?’
‘Jude thought she wouldn’t understand. And I wasn’t going to argue.’
‘You’re quite sure you never met?’
‘I think I’d remember.’
‘And you think that Mrs Lennox wasn’t aware of your existence.’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Did she suspect that Judith was involved with someone?’
‘I never met the woman. Why don’t you ask Jude?’
‘I’m asking you,’ said Yvette, curtly. She saw him give his tiny smile.
‘As far as I know, she didn’t suspect. But mothers have a way of sensing things, don’t they? So maybe she noticed something was up.’
‘Where were you on the evening she was murdered – Wednesday, the sixth of April?’
‘What? Do you really think I would have killed someone because I didn’t want them to find out about a relationship with their daughter?’
‘It’s a criminal offence. You could go to prison.’
‘This is all crap. She’s nearly sixteen. She’s not a little kid in pigtails with scabby knees. You’ve seen her. Drop-dead gorgeous. I met her at a club. Where you have to be eighteen to get in, by the way. And show your ID.’
‘How long have you been involved with her?’
‘What do you mean by involved?’
‘Oh, please, just give me an answer.’
He closed his eyes. Yvette wondered if he could feel the pulse of her hostility from where he was sitting.
‘I met her nine weeks ago,’ he said. ‘Not long, is it?’
‘And she’s on the Pill?’
‘You’ll have to ask Jude about things like that.’
‘Are you still with her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. That’s the truth.’ For a moment, his mask seemed to slip. ‘She couldn’t bear to touch me. She wouldn’t even let me hug her. I think she feels responsible for it all. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which somehow makes me responsible too.’
‘I see.’
‘Not really responsible,’ he added hastily.
‘No.’
‘So, really, I think it’s over. You should be pleased. I’m legal again.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Yvette.
That evening, there was a ring at the doorbell of the Lennox house. Russell Lennox heard it from the top of the house and waited for someone else to answer it. But Ted was out and he thought that Judith was too – that was something he ought to know, of course. Ruth would have known. Dora was in her room and already in bed. And, for once, Louise wasn’t in the house, vacuuming with her bloody baby strapped round her, or doing her endless baking. The doorbell rang once more and Russell sighed. He went heavily down the stairs.
He didn’t recognize the woman on the doorstep and she didn’t immediately introduce herself, just stared at him as though she was searching for someone. She was tall and bony rather than thin, with long hair tied loosely back and glasses hanging round her neck on a cord. She was wearing a long patchwork skirt with a muddy hem.
‘I thought I should come.’
‘I’m sorry – who are you?’
She didn’t answer, just raised her eyebrows, almost as though she was amused. ‘You should recognize me,’ she said at last. ‘I’m your partner in humiliation.’
‘Oh! You mean …’
‘Elaine Kerrigan,’ she said, and held out her long slim hand, which Russell took, then didn’t know how to let it go.
‘But why are you here?’ he asked. ‘What do you want?’
‘Want? To see you, I suppose. I mean, see what you look like.’
‘What do I look like?’
‘You look done in,’ she said, and suddenly tears welled in Russell’s eyes.
‘I am.’
‘But really I came to thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For beating up my husband.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You gave him a lovely black eye.’
‘You’re on the wrong track.’
‘And a swollen lip so he can’t talk properly. And I don’t have to listen to his lies.’
‘Mrs Kerrigan –’
‘Elaine. You did what I wanted to. I’m grateful.’
Russell was about to protest again, then his face softened in a smile. ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said. ‘You’d better come in. Maybe you’re the only person in the world I want to talk to.’
FORTY
This time Frieda didn’t need to ring the doorbell. Lawrence Dawes was at the front of the house with another man. Dawes was up a stepladder and the other man was holding it. When Frieda announced herself, he looked round, smiled and descended the steps with care.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten the name.’
Frieda told him and he nodded in recognition. ‘I’m terrible with names. I do apologize. I remember you very clearly. This is my friend, Gerry. He helps me with my garden, I help him with his and then we have a drink to celebrate. And this woman is a psychiatrist, so be careful what you say.’
Gerry was a similar age to Dawes, but looked entirely different. He was dressed in checked shorts that reached his knees and a short-sleeved shirt that was also checked, but of a different kind, so that he almost shimmered. His legs and arms were thin, wiry and deeply tanned. He had a small grey moustache that was very slightly uneven.
‘You’re neighbours?’ said Frieda.
‘Almost,’ said Gerry. ‘We share the same river.’
‘Gerry’s a few houses upstream from me,’ said Dawes. ‘He can pollute my stream but I can’t pollute his.’
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Gerry.
‘We’ve been giving my roses some attention,’ said Dawes. ‘They’ve really started growing and we’re trying to train them. You know, roses round the door. Do you like roses?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Frieda.
‘We were about to have some tea,’ said Dawes.
‘Were we?’ said Gerry.
‘We’re always about to have tea. We’ve either just had it or we’re about to have it, or both. Would you like to join us?’
‘Just for a few minutes,’ said Frieda. ‘I don’t want to keep you from your work.’
Dawes stowed his stepladder away – ‘Kids’ll nick anything that moves,’ he said – and they went through the house to the back lawn. Frieda sat on the bench and the two men came out, carrying mugs, a teapot, a jug of milk and a plate of chocolate biscuits. They laid them out on a small wooden table. Dawes poured the tea and handed a mug to Frieda.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Frieda.
‘You’re a psychiatrist.’
‘Well, a psychotherapist.’
‘Every time you come, I’m doing up the house. I’m digging the garden, I’m making the roses look nice. What you’re thinking is that I have this feeling that if I make my house nice enough my daughter will want to come back to it.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I suppose that’s one of the problems doing your job.’