Blood in Grandpont (23 page)

But Holden had had enough of pussyfooting. ‘You knew her mother. Her real mother, that is. Christine, wasn’t it? You told me last time Lucy liked to ask questions about her.’

‘Did I. Yes, well I suppose we did talk about her. Lucy wanted to know what she was like.’

‘Like the dresses and styles she wore and the music she listened to?’ Holden continued to press, speaking quickly and firmly. Even her questions sounded like statements. ‘Isn’t that what you told me last time? I’m fairly sure it was.’

Marjorie Drabble, who had been sitting up ever since she had received her tea, now lay back into her pile of pillows and gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m feeling a bit weary.’

Holden made a noise that was halfway between a grunt and a laugh. But she wasn’t ready to concede any ground. ‘You only have to ring the bell, and the nurse will come running, and I’ll be forced to leave. Not that that it is any skin off my nose. Lucy is dead anyway, and we know she’s the murderer. It’s just dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. That’s what I want to do, for my own satisfaction. I can’t bring back Karen from the dead. And she died because she found out about Lucy somehow, and Lucy realized.’
She stopped, to gather breath, though she wasn’t quite sure what else she wanted to say.

‘She died because you didn’t catch Lucy first!’ But the stark truth of what she had said struck Holden with a ferocity of such intensity that she felt an almost physical pain in her stomach. Christ, how could she say that? How could she lay the blame on her?

How? Because, at some level, it was true. Holden was crying now. She felt the tears running down hot over her cheeks, stinging the pores of her skin, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Her whole body reverberated with huge wracking sobs, and for the first time since Karen died, she abandoned herself completely to grief. And in this abandonment, she found – eventually – comfort.

‘I’m sorry.’ The apology didn’t register at first. It was a small voice, barely audible above the storm. ‘That’s wasn’t nice of me,’ it persisted. Holden raised her head, and discovered Marjorie Drabble looking at her. And there seemed to be genuine concern in her eyes.

Holden wiped her face, and nodded. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘In fact, I’m not a very nice person, you know,’ Drabble said, continuing her own train of thought, and speaking more loudly, as if determined to be heard.

Despite her own emotional pain, Holden was alert to the change of emphasis in Drabble. She wondered how to respond, for the woman seemed to need a response. ‘My mother,’ Holden said, taking refuge from her own uncertainties, ‘would say we are all sinners.’

‘How comforting!’ Drabble’s reply was sarcastic, but softly modulated. ‘But not for me.’

‘Would you like to tell me why you feel you’re not a very nice person?’

Drabble laughed, and it was a genuine laugh of pleasure. ‘Oh, Susan! I hope you don’t mind me calling you Susan? But in the circumstances, I’d like to. You really don’t give up, do you? Well, yes I would like to tell you. I need to tell someone, and you’re the
one I’d like it to be. No sanctimonious confession to a priest for me.’ She laughed again, but her face had turned serious, deadly serious. ‘I’ll tell you, and you only. And it goes no further than us two! All right?!’

‘You have my word.’

‘Well, that’s good enough by me. I just hope you don’t hate me by the end, because if it wasn’t for me your Karen would still very likely be alive.’

Holden felt tears welling up again, and she swallowed hard as she tried to regain control of her emotions. ‘I think I know that already,’ she said. ‘It’s the detail I don’t know.’

‘Would you mind just straightening me up, first? I’ve got a bit uncomfortable.’

It took a couple of minutes for Holden to complete the task of plumping pillows, pulling tighter the sheets to remove folds, and hoisting the admittedly rather lightweight old woman into a more upright position. The cancer had taken its toll. Holden gave her a glass of water, and poured herself the lukewarm remains of tea from the pot. Then she went back to her chair, sipped at her cup and waited for Marjorie Drabble to begin.

‘What stupid, stupid things we do with our lives!’ She was looking past Holden, and out of the window, her eyes apparently focused on some distant point where everything made sense.

‘Lucy first came to me on the Thursday, the Thursday before Maria’s death. She came, as I told you before, to plead for her father. My son Graham was all for throwing the book at Alan for failing to diagnose my cancer, but I never really wanted to, and when she started to cry, I couldn’t deny her. Why should I want to? Her mother Christine and I had been such good friends. And I guess it’s no surprise that it was Christine who we talked about most, because Lucy really wanted to know all about her – the mother she never really knew. So I told her how Christine loved Laura Ashley dresses, and Indian skirts, and joss sticks and Chinese takeaways, and Edna O’Brien’s novels and all that sort of thing. You name it and we talked about it!’ Drabble stopped, and a smile crossed her
face as she remembered her friend of long ago.

‘And did you discuss Christine’s death?’ The question popped out of Holden’s mouth almost new born, for it had only been conceived in the recesses of her mind as she listened to Drabble, and yet it seemed suddenly so obvious when the key link between the women was Christine Tull.

‘Yes, we did.’ She nodded slowly as she said this, but otherwise went silent.

Holden waited. Outside the door, footsteps approached, but then passed on further down the corridor. ‘And?’ she finally prompted.

‘I told her the truth. Just as I will now tell you the truth. But I don’t want to be interrupted, so just let me tell it the way I want to, and at the end – maybe – I’ll answer any questions you have. Right?’

‘Right,’ Holden agreed. After all, what else could she say?

‘You know some of the details, I’m sure. There must be a police report on it somewhere, and it’s no secret. It’s just not something people talk about any more. In fact, they never did. Christine died driving home from Leamington Spa. She lost control of the car, and ran into a tree, and died instantly. When they ran tests, they found she was way over the alcohol limit, so it looked like it was her own stupid fault. The only problem for that theory was that it seemed out of character. Christine was a one or two glasses of wine at the most type, and of course she left behind Lucy, who was barely one year old, so it was just not something people much cared to talk about, at least not anywhere near Dr Tull. But that isn’t the whole story.’ She stopped then, though whether to get her breath or whether to get some sort of feedback, Holden wasn’t sure, and anyway it didn’t actually matter.

‘Are you OK?’ Holden asked. ‘Would you like some water?’

‘You see,’ Drabble continued, ignoring the question, ‘she was in Leamington Spa at a publishing event. She was a books editor, and they were doing a launch for a new series of arts books, and one of the contributors was Dominic Russell. So he was there too, and one thing led to another, and he seduced her. He always fancied
himself, did Dominic, not to mention anyone young and pretty in a short skirt, and poor Christine was completely taken in.’

Holden’s mind was in overdrive as she took in and assessed this new information. Could she fully trust Marjorie Drabble? She had thought that in these circumstances she could, but she wasn’t entirely sure. ‘How do you know?’ she interrupted.

‘Christine told me, of course. How else? We were the best of friends, and she rang me in a complete state about 9.30 that evening. She was so upset she was almost incoherent. She told me how Dominic had invited her round to his room before supper to discuss some ideas he had for future books, and the next thing was he was plying her with drink and … well, she didn’t have a chance. She was almost hysterical when she told me. I tried to calm her down, and I thought at the time that I had managed it, but no. She was meant to stay in Leamington that night, and I assumed she had, but apparently she checked out at about 10.15, telling the receptionist she had to go home because her daughter was ill. And, of course, she never made it.’

‘So, when you told Lucy all this, how did she react?’

‘How do you think she reacted? She was almost apoplectic with rage.’

‘I see.’ But in reality Holden saw as through a glass darkly, and even as she thought about what Drabble had said, a string of questions were accelerating round her head like hyperactive children at a four-year-old’s party, running wild and refusing to be controlled. For example, when exactly did this conversation take place? And when Drabble told Lucy all this, were Maria and Jack already dead? And did she know that Lucy had killed them? And if so, why did she tell Lucy about it? Because she wanted Dominic dead? And if so why? And if so, did she encourage Lucy to kill Maria and Jack too? What the hell was Drabble’s motive in all of this?

Holden stood up, and turned to look out the window, though her brain was so overloaded that it barely registered what the eyes saw. After several seconds, she turned back and looked down at the sick
old woman in the bed, trying to divine what was going on inside her head.
Mens sana in corpore sano.
It was a Latin verse that her father had taken delight in claiming in his lighter moments. So was the opposite true too? Sick minds in sick bodies. How sick in the head was Marjorie Drabble?

‘Did you want Lucy to kill Dominic?’

‘Does it matter?’

For someone who only a short while previously had appeared keen to make a confession, this was a curious answer. Was she playing some more complicated game? And of course it mattered. It was integral to her own desire for resolution. She felt the tide of anger, rising through her body, invading her head, and she fought to hold it back. ‘Did you encourage Lucy to kill Maria?’

‘Why should I?’ The reply was instant.

‘Yes, or no? I thought we were being truthful towards each other.’

‘You haven’t been entirely truthful, yourself,’ came the response. ‘You haven’t told me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about Lucy’s death, have you?’

‘Lucy is better off dead than alive. Period.’

Drabble laughed, a laugh of genuine amusement. ‘You’re dodging the question, Inspector, but never mind. I know what the true answer is, even if you can’t admit it. But as for your question, no I didn’t encourage her to kill Maria. But she told me about it afterwards. Actually, I guessed she had done it, because she came to me the next night, and burst into tears when I said how sorry I was, but I knew she had no love for her stepmother, so I knew it wasn’t grief that was eating away at her. So I asked her outright, and she admitted it immediately, and she talked and talked and I listened, and at the end I assured her that her secret was safe with me.’

‘So what about Jack?’

‘I guess I’m not guilt free there. I asked her what she intended to do about Jack, and she said she didn’t know, and I told her she should do what she wanted to do. A couple of days later she returned, and told me she had killed him too.’

‘You think he deserved that?’

Again she laughed, but it was a harsher sound. ‘Actions have consequences. That’s something my grandmother used to say, and that’s something I believe.’

Holden pursed her lips. Marjorie Drabble was a hard one to read. She sat down again on the chair, and leant forward. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if that is the case, what was the action that led to Dominic Russell’s death? His seduction of Christine?’

Another laugh rang out, and echoed round the room so loudly that Holden wondered if the nurse wouldn’t come running to see what on earth had caused such unseemly behaviour. But no one came, and eventually the laughing petered out, and Drabble’s face grew stern. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ she demanded.

‘So you told Lucy because you knew that she had killed Maria and Jack, and so you also knew there would be nothing to stop her killing Dominic too. You killed Dominic by proxy, in fact. Is that right?’

Drabble folded her arms, and looked straight into Holden’s face. ‘I did say I wasn’t a very nice person.’

‘That isn’t an answer to my question.’

‘I know.’ She smiled what was almost a smile of sympathy. ‘You answer my question about Lucy’s death, and I’ll answer yours.’

Holden hesitated, but only briefly. She too wanted to confess to someone. Needed too, even. A memory from childhood, painfully vivid, came to her: she was standing on the high diving board at the swimming pool, waiting to jump, and a line of children, mostly older than her, stood behind, urging her to get on with it or get out of the way. And she had been so scared, and yet she was determined to do it, because her mother was in the viewing gallery, watching. So eventually she had breathed in, pinched her nose, and had jumped. And much to her surprise, she had survived.

She took in a deep breath. ‘I pushed Lucy over the balcony because she murdered the first person I have ever truly loved.’

There, she had said it, and she shut her eyes. But the feeling of relief that she craved did not follow. Instead, she felt her throat tighten, and even with her eyes closed tears began to well up, and
then her whole body started to shake again. And all she could feel was an intense, head-splitting feeling of hatred for the woman who had shattered her happiness. She had absolutely no regrets.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ Drabble said. Her own eyes were red, and she dabbed at them with the corner of a sheet as she waited until she had got Holden’s attention. ‘I got Lucy to kill Dominic because I was incapable of doing it myself.’ Drabble said this in a determined, raised voice. ‘For years and years and years I had wanted him to die. Well, not just die. I used to fantasize that he would get cancer and then die a very long and very agonizing death, and that after death he would discover that God did exist and that God was a vengeful God who would condemn him to everlasting torment. You see, the bottom line was that I didn’t have the guts to do my own dirty work. But when this golden opportunity turned up in the form of Lucy Tull, well!’ She paused, and rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, on which beads of sweat had now begun to form. ‘You see, Susan, Christine wasn’t the only person to fall prey to Dominic’s charms. Six months before that, I had had an affair with him. Not a one-night encounter like poor Christine, but nearly three months of furtive meetings and often, I am ashamed to say, rather exciting sex. The only problem was that in my naivety I got pregnant. When I told Dominic, he dropped me like the proverbial hot potato, and I was left not knowing whose child I was carrying – Dominic’s or my husband’s. I never did try to find out. What was the point? At least the two possible fathers were the same skin colour and the same hair colour, and both even then showed a tendency to carry too much weight. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how alike they were, except in temperament.’