A Meeting of Minds (14 page)

Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: A Meeting of Minds

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A woman in a green overall, balanced on a step-ladder, was
re-arranging gargantuan artificial flowers in a monster vase. Vanessa pulled at her skirt. âThis is mine,' she told her.

âPardon, madam?'

Neil was trying to draw her away. Vanessa gesticulated to include the whole scene.

The woman began to climb down. âWhat is it you want, madam? Let me find someone to serve you.'

And then, before the boy's appalled eyes, it began, Vanessa suddenly revitalised, marching about the aisles, ordering armloads of cut or artificial flowers, shoals â van loads â of useless, eye-catching stuff, until a little knot of assistants gathered round, gazing at her in puzzled disbelief.

âShe's Mrs Winter,' Neil hissed in excuse. He hadn't reckoned with her behaving like a madwoman âShe's Sheila Winter's mother.'

They must all have known the news by now. The police invasion and closure of the office, and Barry Childe's being held for questioning was made public in last night's Evening Echo. The staff would have been on tenterhooks all day, worrying what was to become of their jobs.

âLook, there's a coffee shop or something, isn't there?' he asked in desperation. âVanessa, shall we go there? Have a bit of a rest, eh?'

She didn't think much of the set-up in there. While she allowed herself to be served with coffee and a choc chip muffin, she was euphorically redesigning the decor, the uniforms, the staff, the china. At least she left the menu unaltered. Neil supposed, rightly enough, that she knew next to nothing about food preparation.

Three green-overalled plant salesmen were hanging about uneasily eyeing them as they ate. When he went to the cashier to pay he asked her to ring through and put a stay on the gargantuan order. âMrs Winter'll have to arrange for somewhere to store the goods first,' he explained. They seemed relieved. One raised a query about the invoices.

âLeave them for the present,' he said. âShe may want to
adjust the quantities before delivery, but we'll take some cut flowers for the house if you'll put them on her account.'

âMiss Winter's usual order?'

âThat seems a good idea. You know the address.'

They let him pay for the coffees and muffins. It seemed that staff and company directors didn't get anything for free.

Set off-balance by Vanessa's eccentric outburst, he found the journey back a horror. Much worse than that; it was a replay of reality. He hadn't allowed for the difference night might make, never having driven this car in the dark. The unfamiliar dashboard and siting of controls played on his initial nervousness, but facing the oncoming glare of headlights from traffic homing at speed in the treacherous country lanes made his guts seize up. He found himself responding with almost hysterical acceleration. The car bucked and shuddered; its tyres screamed on comering.

He was back in another time, another car, with another woman alongside. That fatal time. It was going to happen over again. He thought he felt the impact and the chaos of spinning, heard again the splintering swear of metal. The taste of blood soured his mouth, and his nostrils were filled with the sickly sweetness of it. He knew he would crash again. And die.

Shaking uncontrollably, he swung the wheel, tore at speed into the grass verge, slewing the big car as he savagely braked, then sat there in the terrible following silence, his head sunk on his chest. He'd hit a ditch and the bank beyond it. The windscreen was blurred by the pressure of dense hawthorn branches. Vanessa's head lolled on his shoulder.

Dear God, not again. Had he killed this one too?

Then she laughed, a rook-like caw. âWheeeeh!' Drunk on speed, but she'd be no bloody use for helping get the fucking car back on the road.

Nothing for it, he guessed, but to phone the emergency services. There'd been a yellow AA badge on the front bumper. He started pulling things out of the glove compartment,
which no-bloody-body ever used for gloves. Sheila had been a practical sort of person. Chances were he'd find the phone number somewhere in there.

There was a folder with everything he needed. Just the same, the first number he pressed out was for Marty's mobile phone.

They didn't have to wait more than fifteen minutes before the breakdown van arrived. A cheerful uniformed man in his forties slashed a way through the hedgerow to open up the bonnet. âYou've been lucky with the windscreen and headlamps. Just a few deep scratches on the bodywork,' he announced. âEngine's turning over sweet as a bell. We'll have you out of there in a coupla shakes. Would the lady like to take a seat in me van?'

With Neil standing by, the Alfa Romeo was attached and hauled back on to the road. âThink you're up to carrying on now?' the AA patrol man enquired. âGot a valid licence and all that?'

âYep, and I'm twenty. And no, I've not been drinking.'

He was asked to sign the work sheet. âYou're not the owner of the car?' was the final question.

âIt's mine,' Vanessa claimed, âand I don't drive.'

The man returned the card to its folder. âRight, Mrs Winter. I'm going out your way. Maybe the young man would like to follow me up.'

It was humiliating to return in convoy, but Vanessa appeared gratified by the attention. Neil dropped her off at the front door and unloaded the cellophane-wrapped flowers the silly old trout had insisted on crowding in the rear floorspace and boot. He parked the car in the open where he'd found it the previous day.

With his arms full of flowers he was halfway up the front stairs when he heard the shrieks. Vanessa came stumbling out of the flat and hung on to the gallery rail, her face contorted with horror.

âWhat is it? For God's sake get a grip on yourself.' He dumped the flowers and tried to pull her wrists free, but they were locked fast on the wrought iron, as the shrill screams continued, pumped out between soughing breaths. âI can't â¦' she managed to get out.

âStay here,' he commanded

âDon't leave me. For God' sake, help me.'

Her fingers fastened on his arms, biting into the biceps. His heart pounding, he looked round wildly for a means of escape. She'd lost it completely. He'd always thought she was borderline, and now â¦ Shit! â she was dragging him down the stairs again and his feet had tangled with the dumped flowers. The whole damn lot went over, and they were both falling together, head-over-heels-over-shoulders, in an unholy grapple.

He heard his head bash on the lower newel post. It felt split open.

âLet go, woman!' That wasn't his own voice, but Marty's. Where had he materialised from?

He sat up, heaved with nausea and felt Vanessa pulled off him. She was gibbering now. âThere's a
dead body.
On my bed!'

Chapter Fifteen

Rosemary Zyczynski, driving home through the early dusk of Wednesday, had consoled herself that one advantage of being considered useless was that that berk Salmon hadn't kept her on for overtime. She slewed the Ford Escort round the rear corner of the house and pulled up opposite her garage. The silver Alfa Romeo, which had been returned yesterday, was no longer there. So someone had run it under cover. She wondered idly what would become of the car. Beattie had mentioned that Vanessa didn't care for driving, so doubtless she'd be putting it up for sale, possibly get something smaller and easier to manage.

Pity I can't afford it, she thought. Not that I'd dare own a car like that. There'd been mockery enough at the local nick over her upmarket new address.

She operated the electronic door-lift and drove in, switched off, collected her notebook from the glove compartment and made for the house. There were no lights on in Beattie's flat, so she'd managed to fit in the appointment with her hairdresser. Good: those little silver streaks above the ears didn't quite suit her

The house appeared quiet as she let herself in at the front door. Upstairs, taped to her own door panels, was a note. âR, if you can spare time, would you look in on V? She's having a fit of the willies. B'

Z gritted her teeth: yet more angst, after a day of being belittled by the new DI. Well, here at any rate her existence might be appreciated. Not by Vanessa, though. For her, other people were a mere convenience, a tissue to wipe her hands on. Strange woman: if her total blanking out of others was the aftermath of shock, then it was unlike any in Z's experience. There had been no outward show of grief, but this was surely not from ingrained discipline. Vanessa was like a self-pitying
child who punished the world for her misfortunes. Perhaps that made her slow to face reality.

The negative response to her daughter's sudden, violent end must be what psychologists dubbed the denial stage of trauma. Beattie had described Vanessa's present mood as âthe willies'. Z wished she'd known the woman better before tragedy struck. It was hard to judge whether this was a typical or transitory state. Whichever, it wasn't proving easy for those close to her.

She dumped her shoulder bag, filled the kettle, told herself not to be a hardhearted cow. (Did cows in fact have no finer feelings? Surely not, with such amiable faces and sad, brown eyes.)

While she waited for the tea to brew she looked through the post which had arrived after she'd left that morning. There was another instruction from an unknown mail order firm to write instantly and claim a stupendous mystery prize. She promptly binned it together with a couple of offers to lend money at advantageous rates.

More demanding of attention were a reminder to renew her TV licence, and a hastily scribbled note from Aunt Alice to complain that Uncle Ted was no better, and she was at the end of her tether with him.

Evil old man, Z mouthed silently. Alice was another case of someone being ground into the earth because she was stronger than those who made demands. She was sorry for her because thirty years ago when she'd married him she couldn't have guessed how he'd turn out. Respectable English ladies weren't so worldly-wise in those days, taking marriage on trust, with no â or minimal â advance experiment. So she'd drawn a bad'un, which wasn't really her fault. And maybe in their earlier days together he'd been tolerable.

All the same, however willfully blind, Alice should have had some inkling of what was going on under her own roof. Almost from the first week of being left with them, Rosemary, newly orphaned at ten, had had to put up with his petting.
Taught to be respectful, and afraid of seeming rude to this husband of her dead mother's sister, she'd found herself drawn into scary collusion, only half understanding the awfulness of what he started doing to her, but knowing no way to get free of this imposed âspecial secret' they shared. And Alice, busy with new child-based adjustments and her personal grief, hadn't found time to encourage confidences.

Z sighed. The three seizures Ted had suffered in recent years weren't anything she'd wish on her worst enemy, if she'd had one. It was difficult to tell just how much of his mind was still active. She wondered if he could remember what he'd done, and feel any remorse. Behind that empty gaze, did he flinch, knowing what she must think of him?

Poor Alice. She should get her Welfare visitor to arrange a short stay in hospital for the old man, to let her off the leash. Z decided to ring and suggest this later that evening; then perhaps put a cheque in the post so she could book herself in at a decent hotel.

Meanwhile there was what to do about Vanessa. It was all very well for DI Salmon to snarl at her that she wasn't working for social services. There were times when she thought that, apart from Beattie, she was the only one in the world still doing just that. She rinsed her used mug under the tap and went to call on her neighbour.

Vanessa's door was slightly ajar, so clearly she was expected. She knuckled the panels before walking in. From the far end of the apartment she heard a muffled clatter, then rushed, stealthy movements. Had she interrupted Vanessa at something private?

The drawing-room was empty. âIt's Rosemary, Mrs Winter,' she called as she moved farther in. A wedge of light spilled from the bedroom door across the ochre carpet.

âVanessa?'

As she pushed open the door, there had been a sound like a flock of birds taking to the air. She caught a brief glimpse of the disordered room, as a huge shadow rose and blocked out
the light. Something flung itself on her. She swivelled, and her hands, thrown up to protect her face, were a fraction too late. The blow felled her. Her brain seemed to judder inside her skull as she struck the door jamb in falling. Darkness swept over her. She thought only,
There was somebody
â¦

Gingerly Neil Raynes sat up to lean his back against the wall. Marty had his phone to one ear and gave a little flick of the other hand in acknowledgment. âTwo, yes. Both with head injuries. One unconscious. I haven't moved her. Twelve minutes? OK.'

Neil twisted to look for Vanessa. She was sitting bolt upright on a hall chair, chalk-white and with the same stricken look on her face. But conscious. So who else was injured?

âDon't think of moving,' Marty ordered him. âYou were out for almost a minute. I'm sending you to hospital too, for a checkup, just to be safe. Don't worry. A thick-skulled chap like you should be able to take a toss downstairs.'

âWho else? Vanessa said there was a body â¦'

Marty came and hunkered alongside, lowering his voice. âIt looks as though there's been a break-in upstairs. Stuff thrown all over the place. Young Rosemary must have walked in on it and got knocked out. But the bird's flown. He left her on the bed.'

âGod, he didn't â¦?'

âJust coshed, I think. Her clothes weren't interfered with. I'm going to leave you now, if you're feeling all right. I need to take a look around up there before the police and paramedics get here.'

âI'm fine,' said Neil, feeling nausea threaten in his throat. His eyes weren't focusing properly. Bloody hypochondriac! he accused himself, visited by a sudden fear of retinal injury.

It was Rosemary he should be worrying about. How long had she been out cold? Was it serious? He should have shoved Vanessa away and gone to look after the girl.

Then he realized that the hospital they'd be taken to was his
own. He'd be portered in by his â what? â scarcely friends.
Colleagues
sounded a bit too fancy. Mark and Paddy; maybe old Grunter. At least now he'd a genuine reason for sick leave!

And what would they make of Rosemary? Both injured, it might look as though they'd been fighting each other. What a bloody mess.

That was the moment Vanessa chose to slither to the floor in a near faint. He crawled over and settled her in recovery position, undid the top button of her jacket and loosened the blouse underneath. She gave a little moan. âYou're going to be fine,' he told her. He'd heard that hollow comfort from so many nurses that mimicking them made him feel a phoney.

âDarling boy,' Vanessa murmured, then opened her eyes and smiled into his. âYou're a good boy, Gordon, whatever they say.'

He heard the distant braying of the ambulance approaching, then Marty ran downstairs to let the paramedics in. They were a pair Neil knew, but he cut them short with, âNot us. Upstairs.'

The man thundered up like a herd of buffaloes. The woman returned to the ambulance for a stretcher. Neil pulled himself to his feet and watched the blue light strobing through the open door.

It seemed to take an age before they had the girl's body downstairs, strapped flat under a red blanket. They draped another round his shoulders and helped him up the ambulance steps as if he were an old man. âMrs Winter?' he asked.

âShe'll be all right. More comfy at home here than waiting in hospital corridors.'

âI'll follow in the car later,' Marty promised. âSomeone has to stay and let the police in.'

Having checked again on Vanessa and handed her over to the schoolteacher, Miss Barnes, who opportunely arrived home at that moment, the woman paramedic elected to drive. Inside the ambulance the man's great bulk, in its Day-Glo
uniform, was bent over the stretcher, when Neil needed to watch the unconscious girl's face for signs of life. She appeared to be wearing a neck brace.

âHow bad is she?'

âShe's out, man. Tha's all you need to know. Did you do this?'

It knocked the breath out of him. âNo!' he shouted. âI wouldn't have hurt her for all the world!'

âYour girl, eh?' The big black face was sympathetic now. He planted a heavy hand on Neil's knee and gave it a friendly squeeze. âBP's a bit low, but she'll do nicely. Looks like you'll soon be among friends, eh?'

Martin Chisholm helped Miss Barnes settle Vanessa on a sofa. âI'll give her doctor a ring,' she said briskly. âShe says she's a private patient, so he'll probably be here in no time.'

âIs there anything you'd like me to do?'

âMaybe clear those crushed flowers off the stairs? We don't want the police skidding or tramping them into the carpets.'

Feeling dismissed like a preppie, he was relieved that the woman seemed adequate to the situation. Flowers weren't really his thing, but he'd transferred most of their carnage to the utility room's sink before a flashing blue light announced the police presence.

He blocked their entry at the outer door. âIt's a crime scene,' he said. âYou'll want it secured until CID arrive, won't you?'

Whatever they'd wanted, the uniforms resented the suggestion. âYou watch too much TV,' the older one said. âWe have to ensure the injured are properly cared for. Where's the medics?'

âCome and gone. I can tell you what I found on coming in.'

âAny eye witnesses to the actual attack?'

âJust the victim and the attacker,' he said drily. âBut after that there was a double trip on the stairs. One person has accompanied the unconscious woman to hospital, the other's ust dazed, and resting in Flat 2. I doubt if you'll get much
sense out of her at present, but she was the one who discovered the unconscious woman in her flat.'

The woman PC had her notebook out. âMaybe you'd explain who “she” was and whose flat “hers” was. Can we have some names? Yours first, sir, if you would.'

âOf course. I'm Martin Chisholm from Flat 5, upstairs rear. Flat 4, upstairs right, was the one broken into. It belongs â¦' He broke off as a second car arrived at speed, spraying gravel.

The passenger door sprang open and a burly man in a waxed jacket and brown corduroys squeezed out. He flapped a leather wallet at them from a distance. âDetective Inspector Walter Salmon,' he announced himself. âWho're you?'

The two uniforms appeared to shrink slightly at sight of him. A fourth policeman got out of the driving seat. He too was in plain clothes. âAnd DS Beaumont,' he told them. âIs the injured woman Mrs Winter?'

âNo, but it happened in her flat. She was out at the time; came back and found Rosemary on her bed. She'd been knocked out.' Chisholm was equally terse.

â
Rosemary?
'

âAnother resident, from Flat 3, upstairs left. She was keeping an eye on Mrs Winter. Are you dealing with her daughter's murder?'

âYou mean it's Z who's been hurt?' Beaumont exclaimed, and simultaneously the DI barked out, âI'm in charge of the murder case.'

âWho's Z?' Chisholm demanded. âThe injured girl is Rosemary Weyman.'

âWrong surname,' Beaumont informed him. âHer name's Zyczynski. Weyman is her ex-landlady's name.'

âYou know her?' Chisholm pursued.