A Taste for Death (56 page)

The next morning found her less confident, but with her resolution unshaken. She would set out after ten o'clock; there was no point in getting caught up in the rush hour. She dressed carefully for the excursion; first impressions were always important. Before setting out she knelt to pray briefly that the visit might be a success, that she would be met with understanding, that Scotland Yard wouldn't be the terrifying place of her imagination, that Commander Dalgliesh or Inspector Miskin would be willing to talk to the local authority, to explain that she wouldn't even mention the murders to Darren if his social

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worker thought it unwise. She walked to Paddington underground station and took the Circle Line. At St James's Park station she came out of the wrong exit, was for a few minutes lost and had to inquire the way to the Yard. And suddenly across the road, she saw the revolving sign, and the great glass oblong building so familiar from television news pictures.

The entrance hall surprised her. She wasn't sure what she had imagined; a uniformed officer on duty, perhaps a steel grille, even a succession of manacled prisoners being escorted to the cells. Instead she found herself facing an ordinary reception desk with a couple of young women duty. The hall was very busy with an air of purposeful l, relaxed activity. Men and women showed their passes, a passed happily gossiping through to the lifts. Except t)r the flame of remembrance burning on its plinth it cou!({, she thought, be almost any office. She asked for Inspect(r Miskin, having decided that this was a matter on which a woman might be more sympathetic than a man and thtt she could hardly worry Commander Dalgliesh with sonar thing so unimportant, except to her. No, she admitted, she hadn't an appointment. She was asked to sit down on of the chairs set against the left-hand wall, and watch'd while the girl telephoned. Her confidence grew, and the hands clutching her handbag gradually relaxed. She was able to take an interest in the busy comings and goings to feel that she had a right to be there.

And suddenly Inspector Miskin was standing beside tcr. She hadn't expected her to appear. Somehow she thought that she would be taken by messengers to Inspector's office. She thought: she's saving time. If thinks it's important then she'll take me up. And Inspe Miskin obviously didn't think it important. When Wharton had explained her purpose she sat down be her and was for a moment silent. Miss Wharton thoul t: she's disappointed. She hoped I was bringing her s news about the murders, that I'd remembered somett new and important. Then the Inspector said:

'I'm sorry, but I don't see how we can help. '

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Juvenile Court has made a supervision order to the local authority. It's their concern now.'

'I know. That's what Mrs Kendrick told me, but I thought you might be able to use your influence. After all, the police...'

'We have no influence, not in this.'

The words sounded dreadfully final. Miss Wharton found herself pleading:

'I wouldn't talk to him about the murder, although I sometimes think that boys are tougher than we are in some ways. But I'd be very careful. I'd feel so much better if only I could see him again, even if briefly, just to know that he's all right.'

'Why can't you? Did they say?'

'They think he ought not to talk about the murders until he can work through the trauma with someone ex-perienced in social work skills.'

'Yes, that sounds like the jargon.'

Miss Wharton was surprised by the sudden bitterness in the Inspector's voice. She sensed that she had an ally. She opened her mouth to make an appeal and decided against it. If anything could be done, Inspector Miskin would do it. The Inspector seemed to be thinking, then she said:

'I can't give you his address; anyway I can't remember it. I'd have to consult the file. I'm not even sure if they've left him at home with his mother, although I suppose they'd have gone for a care order if they'd wanted to remove him. But I can remember the name of his school,

Bollington Road Junior. Do you know it?'

Miss Wharton said eagerly:

'Oh yes, I know where Bollington Road is. I can get there.'

'They still come out at about three thirty, don't they? You could try passing at the right time. If you met him

accidentally I don't see how they could object to that.' 'Thak you, thank you.'

Miss Wharton, her perceptions sharpened by anxiety and now relief, guessed that Inspector Miskin was won-dering whether to ask her again about the murders; but

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with her to the door, she ]oo]ed u

z['u e been very [[ rememSer

about the murders, anything I haven't told you, I'll get in

Sitting in the tube on her way to StJames's Park station she had planned that, if all went well she would treat

But her visit to the Yard seemed to have taken more out of her than she had exacted, and even the thought negotiating the trac of Victoria Street depressed and discouraged her. Perhaps it would be less exhausting to go without the coffee and make for home. While she was hesitating at the edge of the pavement she felt a shoulder brush against he. A male voice, young, pleasant, said:

'Excuse me, but aren't you Miss Wharton? I met you at the Berowne.inquest. I'm Dominic Swayne, Sir Pul's brother-in-law.'

She blinked confused for second, and then recognized him. He said:

'We're blocking the pavement,' and she felt his hand on her arm, firmly guiding her across the street. Then, with-out releasing her, he said:

'You must have been to the Yard. So have I. I feel in need of a drink. Please have one with me. I was thinking

of the St Ermin's Hotel.'

Miss Wharton said:

'You're very kind, but I'm not sure...'

'Please. I need someone to talk to. You'd be doing me kindness.'

It really was impossible to refuse. His voice, smile, the press of his arm were persuasive. He was steering her gently but firmly forward through the station nd into Caxton Street. And, suddenly here was the hotel, looking so solidly welcoming, its wide courtyard flanked by heraldic beasts. It would be good to have a quiet sit before she started the journey home. He guided her through the left-hand door and into the foyer.

It was, she thought all ve grand; the branching

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reassuring about this Edwardian elegance, this atmosphere panion over the blue and fawn carpet to a couple of high themselves he asked:

'What would you like? There's coffee, but I think yo should have something stronger. Sher?'

'Yes, that would be ve nice, thank you.'

'Dry?'

'Well, not too d, perhaps.'

Mrs Kendrick had brought out the sher decante before dinner eve evening at St Crispin's vicarage. I had invariably been dry, a pale sour sharpness not reall' to her taste. But she had missed the evening ritual on he return home. There was no doubt one did get quickly use, to these little luxuries. He lifted his finger and the waite came, swiftly deferential. The sher arrived, a rich ambe half-sweet, immediately reviving. There was a little bo of nuts and one of small dry biscuits. How elegant, ho soothing it all was. The raucous life of Victofia Street couh have been miles away. She sat back, glass at her lips, am looked with tremulous wonder at the ornately cae ceiling, the twin wall-lights with their fringed shad, th, huge urns of flowers at the foot of the stair. And suddenl, she knew why she felt so at home. Sight, sound, sensation even the young man's bce bent smiling towards her, al fused into a long-forgotten picture. She was in a hote lounge, surely this same hotel, this ve place, sitting witi her brother on his first leave after he had gained his set geant's stripes. And then she remembered. He had bee stationed at Bassingbourn in East Anglia. They must hay, met at a hotel near Liverpool Street, not Victoria. But i had been so very similar. She remembered her pride i the smartness of his uniform, the one winged badge of a air-gunner on his breast, the pristine brightness of his thre, stripes, her sense of importance at being escorted by him

she said nothing. As they got up and the Inspector walked with her to the door, she looked up at her and said:

'You've been very kind. If I remember anything new about the murders, anything I haven't told you, I'll get in touch at once.'

Sitting in the tube on her way to St James's Park station she had planned that, if all went well, she would treat herself afterwards to coffee in the Army and Navy Stores. But her visit to the Yard seemed to have taken more out of her than she had expected, and even the thought of negotiating the traffic of Victoria Street depressed and discouraged her. Perhaps it would be less exhausting to go without the coffee and make for home. While she hesitating at the edge of the pavement she felt a should;r brush against hers. A male voice, young, pleasant, saki:

'Excuse me, but aren't you Miss Wharton? I met yot at the Berowne inquest. I'm Dominic Swayne, Sir Paul's brother-in-law.'

She blinked, confused for a second, and then recognized him. He said:

'We're bIocking the pavement,' and she felt his hand on her arm, firmly guiding her across the street. Then, with-out releasing her, he said:

'You must have been to the Yard. So have I. I fee! in need of a drink. Please have one with me. I was thinkig

of the St Ermin's Hotel.'

Miss Wharton said:

'You're very kind, but I'm not sure...'

'Please. I need someone to talk to. You'd be doing me a kindness.'

It really was impossible to refuse. His voice, smile, the press of his arm were persuasive. He was steering her g(.tly but firmly forward through the station and into C,xton Street. And, suddenly here was the hotel, looking so s,lidly welcoming, its wide courtyard flanked by heraldic b:asts. It would be good to have a quiet sit before she started the journey home. He guided her through the left-hand door and into the foyer.

It was, she thought, all very grand; the bran :ing

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staircase leading to a curved balcony, the glittering chandeliers, the mirrored walls and elegantly carved pil-lars. Yet she felt strangely at home. There was something reassuring about this Edwardian elegance, this atmosphere of assured, respectable comfort. She followed her com-panion over the blue and fawn carpet to a couple of high-backed chairs before the fireplace. After they had seated themselves he asked:

'What would you like? There's coffee, but ! think you should have something stronger. Sherry?'

'Yes, that would be very nice, thank you.'

'Dry?'

'Well, not too dry, perhaps.'

Mrs Kendrick had brought out the sherry decanter before dinner every evening at St Crispin's vicarage. It had invariably been dry, a pale sour sharpness not really to her taste. But she had missed the evening ritual on her return home. There was no doubt one did get quickly used to these little luxuries. He lifted his finger and the waiter came, swiftly deferential. The sherry arrived, a rich amber, half-sweet, immediately reviving. There was a little bowl of nuts and one of small dry biscuits. How elegant, how soothing it all was. The raucous life of Victoria Street could have been miles away. She sat back, glass at her lips, and looked with tremulous wonder at' the ornately carved ceiling, the twin wall-lights with their fringed shades, the huge urns of flowers at the foot of the stair. And suddenly she knew why she felt so at home. Sight, sound, sensation, even the young man's face bent smiling towards her, all fused into a long-forgotten picture. She was in a hotel lounge, surely this same hotel, this very place, sitting with her brother on his first leave after he had gained his ser geant's stripes. And then she remembered. He had been stationed at Bassingbourn in East Anglia. They must have met at a hotel near Liverpool Street, not Victoria. But it had been so very similar. She remembered her pride in t.he smartness of his uniform, the one winged badge of an

ar-gunner on his breast, the pristine brightness of his three stripes, her sense of importance at being escorted by him,

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how she had revelled in the unaccustomed luxury, in the assured way in which he had summoned the waiter; ordered sherry for her, beer for himself. And her present companion reminded her a little of John. Like John, he was barely her own height. 'They like us small, we tail. end Chadies,' John had said. But he had John's fairness, something of John in the blue eyes and the high curve of the eyebrows, and all of John in his kindness and courtesy. Almost she could imagine that she saw the single-winged emblem of the air-gunner on his chest. He said:

'They've been questioning you again about the murders,

I suppose. Did they give you a bad time?'

'Oh no, it wasn't at all like that.'

She explained the purpose of her visit, finding it eas talk to him about Darren, their walks along the towp:th, their visits to the church, her need to see him. She saic

'Inspector Miskin couldn't do anything about the lo;al authority, but she has told me where Darren goes to sch�t. She was really very kind.'

'The police are never kind, only when it suits tl'rn. They weren't kind to me. You see, they think I know thing. They've got a theory. They think my sister miht have done it, she and her lover together.' Miss Whartn cried:

'Oh no! But that's a terrible idea. Surely not a wom:: and his own wife! A woman couldn't have done it, not this murder. Surely they can't think that.'

'Perhaps not. Perhaps they're only pretending to think it. But they're trying to make me say that she confided in me, confessed even. We're very close, you see; we always have been. We only have each other. They know she'd tell me if she were in any trouble.'

'But that's awful for you. I can't believe that Corn-mander Dalgliesh really believes that.'

'He needs to make an arrest, and the wife or husbad is always the obvious suspect. I've had a couple of 5ad hours.'

Miss Wharton had finished her sherry, and, mir:cul-ously it seemed, another was in its place. She took

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and thought: You poor dear. You poor young man. He, too, was drinking, a paler liquid in a tumbler, mixed with water. Perhaps it was whisky. Now he put down the glass and leaned across the table towards her. She could smell the spirit on his breath, masculine, sour, a little disquieting. He said: