Core of Evil (12 page)

Once she reached out to switch the radio on. Firmly, he switched it off again. She glanced uncertainly across at him, but said nothing.

After a series of turns separated by shorter and shorter distances, Lapslie opened his eyes to find Emma slowing down to look for a parking space. They were in a wide road lined with a mixture of silver birch and lime trees and, behind the trees, semi-detached houses built some time around the 1970s. Most front gardens had bikes, or scooters, or wheeled toys shaped like small tractors or lorries abandoned on them. The area gave off a welcome sense of prosperity and supportiveness. Not like some of the sink-hole estates that Lapslie had visited over the years. That was the trouble with being a policeman. You ended up getting a distorted view of the world.

Emma parked in a space under a lime tree. As she and Lapslie got out, Lapslie glanced behind them. There were no other cars driving along the road. He wondered what exactly he had been looking for. A black Lexus perhaps? He shook his head and turned back to Emma. He was beginning to take this conspiracy thing a bit too seriously.

Emma cast a dark glance at the overhanging branches. ‘This tree’s going to drip sap all over my car,’ she muttered. ‘I know it is. Sticky sap. It’s a bugger to get off, but it stains the wax if you don’t.’

‘It’s okay,’ Lapslie said soothingly. ‘We’ll stop off at a car wash on the way back.’

She frowned. ‘This car’s never seen the inside of a car wash, and I’m not about to start now. Do you know what those rotating brushes do to your paint-work? I might as well take a scouring pad to it.’

The nearest house had a plate attached to the gatepost with the number ‘58’ attached. A metal climbing frame sat on the recently cut front lawn: fronds of longer grass and a handful of daisies poking up around the frame where it touched the ground. ‘That’s Violet Chambers’ last known address,’ Emma continued. ‘Doesn’t look abandoned. Also doesn’t look as if an old woman lived there.’

‘If she lived with her family then someone should have reported her missing some time ago,’ Lapslie said.

‘Which they didn’t, according to the records.’

Lapslie walked up towards the house. A bedroom window was open, and a maroon Toyota Camry estate sat on the drive. The rear section contained two backwards-facing seats just large enough for two six-year-olds.

The warm taste of vanilla flooded his mouth, and for a moment Lapslie wasn’t sure why. Then he heard the sounds of children shouting from the back of the house. The sound and the taste and the memories they evoked made him suddenly dizzy: he reached out to hold onto the frame of the swing to steady himself.

‘Are you okay, sir?’

‘Fine.’ He straightened up. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Emma rang the bell, and they waited for a few moments. There were sounds of movement inside the house, then the door opened. A woman in her thirties looked at them curiously. Her brown hair was tied back into a pony-tail, and she wore a flowered silk blouse, tied loosely beneath her breasts, and cord culottes. Her feet were bare. ‘Hello?’ she said cautiously.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie, Essex Constabulary,’ he said, holding out his warrant card. She glanced at it blankly. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Bradbury. Sorry to bother you, but we were looking for the house of Violet Chambers.’

The woman shook her head. ‘I know most of the families around here,’ she said. ‘And I’ve never heard of a Violet Chambers.’

‘She was an elderly lady. In her seventies.’

‘We’ve got mostly families around here. There’s an elderly couple across the road – number sixty-seven. They might know her.’

Emma stepped forward, tossing her hair back with a flick of her head. ‘How long have you been living in the area, Miss—?’

‘Wetherall. Mrs Suzy Wetherall.’ She smiled at Emma, and Emma smiled back. ‘We moved here six months ago. We’re renting, but we love it here so much that we’re hoping to buy a house in the road if any come up for sale.’

‘What made you move here?’ Emma asked.

‘My partner’s job relocated from London. We thought we’d take the chance to find somewhere nicer to live.’ She made a vague gesture towards the garden. ‘And we succeeded.’

Lapslie smiled in response. ‘Who are you renting the house from?’ he asked.

‘An estate agents near the station. I can’t remember the name.’

‘Do you know who was in the house before you?

She shook her head. ‘No, but they left it absolutely spotless.’

‘And what about the owners of the house?’

‘I assumed the estate agents owned it.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose they could be renting it on behalf of someone else, but they never told us who. We just pay them every month.’

‘And you’ve never heard of Violet Chambers?’ Lapslie asked again, just in case the conversation had dislodged a random fragment of memory from the woman’s mind. He’d known it happen before.

‘Never. But ask David and Jean over at number sixty-seven. They might be able to help.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ he said, smiling.

Emma extended her hand towards Mrs Wetherall. ‘Thanks,’ she added, squeezing the woman’s own hand.

They turned to leave. As the door closed behind them, Lapslie said: ‘Instinct?’

‘She’s telling the truth. We can check it with the estate agents—’

‘And we will.’

‘—but I don’t think she’s stringing us along. Looks like the family moved in a couple of months after Violet Chambers died, assuming the post-mortem results are accurate. So – what’s the next step, boss?’

‘We talk to the neighbours over at number sixty-seven to see whether they remember Violet, and then we drive down to the nearest station and check with the estate agents to find out who is renting the house out.’

Vanilla suddenly exploded across his tongue as if someone had squashed an ice cream cornet into his mouth. On the back of the explosion came the sound of shouting from the garden: a sudden argument, a fight, or just a moment of triumph in a game. The shock made him stumble: he caught his stride again but his ankle turned slightly and he staggered sideways, into the grass, before he could catch himself.

Emma was at his side in a moment, holding his arm.

‘Sir – are you all right?’

He felt his face warm up as he blushed. He hated showing weakness. But he probably owed her an explanation, especially if it stopped rumours spreading that he might be alcoholic, or mentally unstable.

‘Let’s get to the car.’

Leaning with his back against Emma’s Mondeo, the heat of the sun-warmed metal comforting through his suit jacket, he took a deep breath. How best to start?

‘Look, sir,’ she said, standing with her hands on her hips and staring out along the road, ‘if you want to talk about it, that’s fine. If you don’t, that’s fine too. Either way, it goes no further.’

He nodded, and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had it for as long as I can remember,’ he said quietly. ‘For a long time I assumed everyone was the same as me, but when the kids at school started teasing me, and saying I was crazy, I stopped talking about it. “Crazy bonkers”, they used to say. “Mark’s gone crazy bonkers”.’

‘And the Force know about it? Whatever it is?’

He nodded. ‘Don’t worry – it’s not depression, or psychosis, or anything like that. I’m not going to suddenly sit in a corner and sob for hours on end. My doctor’s aware, but there’s nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can do. It’s not life-threatening, or even life-changing, or anything that would make them do anything about it. It’s just … part of me. Part of who I am.’

Emma nodded, but she looked like she wanted to shake her head instead. ‘So – what exactly is it then?’

‘It’s called synaesthesia. Nobody knows quite what causes it, but it’s as if the nerves in the brain have got
short-circuited somehow. Signals going in on one route get rerouted to somewhere else. The best theory is that it all starts in infancy. Babies perceive the world in a mish-mash of sensory impressions, because their brains are not completely developed and they can’t separate out smell, taste, touch and so on – they’re all mixed up. As the brain develops, the senses start to separate from one other. For people like me this separation may not take place for reasons we don’t understand. Some people see different colours when they listen to music. There was a Russian composer called Alexander Scriabin, for instance – he could tie particular notes and chords to different shades of colour, and composed his music not just to sound good, but to
look
good as well – at least, to him. Others can actually feel tastes. Roast chicken might be sharp spikes on the palms of their hands. Orange juice might cause the feeling of soft balls rolling on their scalp.’

‘You mean—’ She paused, grasping for the right words. ‘You mean like some people say that something’s making them feel blue? Like that?’

‘Not like that. That’s just people using examples. Blue just means depressed. These are real feelings.’

‘Hallucinations?’ Emma asked, frowning. ‘Surely it must just be hallucinations?’

‘If so, they’re consistent. The same things always provoke the same responses.’

‘And what is it with you? Lights or feelings on your hands?’

He laughed, bitterly. ‘Those I might be able to ignore. No, with me, certain sounds translate into tastes. If I ever hear “Ticket To Ride” by the Beatles, it’s like I’ve just taken a bite out of a rancid chunk of pork.’

Emma ventured a smile. ‘I thought everyone reacted that way to Paul McCartney.’

‘Yeah, but when my cell-phone rings it tastes like I’m drinking a mocha coffee.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘And the sound of children playing always makes me taste vanilla. Sometimes it just takes me by surprise, that’s all. Overwhelms me.’

Emma glanced at him. ‘And there’s nothing that can be done?’

‘Nothing. It’s not going to kill me, and it’s not stopping me from working. My doctor’s suggested acupuncture, which shows how desperate he is, and the neurology department of the local hospital are more interested in studying my brain than they are in finding a treatment. So I just keep on going. Most of the time it doesn’t change anything. I can still work. It’s just that … every now and then, it’s like I get ambushed.’

‘Ambushed by a taste?’

He glanced over at her. ‘Ever bitten into an apple and found it had gone rotten inside? Ever taken a bite of a chocolate and found it was coffee flavour rather than strawberry? Sometimes, flavours can surprise you. Sometimes, they can shock. That’s why I had to
take time off work – go on gardening leave. Things at home weren’t going well, and my synaesthesia took a turn for the worse. I couldn’t stand to be in an office,
tasting
everyone else’s chatter, banter, lies and deceits. I was overwhelmed. The Chief Super signed me off for a few weeks. A few weeks turned into six months. I’ve been doing little odd-jobs for the Chief Super ever since – writing reports and conducting studies into how we can do policing better – but this is the first time I’ve been on active duty for a while.’

‘And the family, sir? You said things weren’t going very well.’

‘They got worse,’ he said shortly. ‘The synaesthesia got to the point where I couldn’t even bear to hear my kids playing in the garden any more. I couldn’t listen to their voices without wanting to throw up. It was … difficult.’

An understatement. It had nearly driven him to suicide. And it had driven him and his wife apart.

Emma shrugged. ‘Well, thanks for telling me. I won’t mention it to anyone.’ She ran a finger across the roof of her car, rubbed her fingers together, and grimaced. ‘Bloody sap. Careful of your jacket – dry cleaning won’t get this stuff out. Shall we get on with talking to the old couple across the road? If you’re all right, that is?’

‘I’m fine.’ He straightened up. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She hesitated. ‘Do I taste of anything?’ She suddenly blushed. ‘I mean—’

‘I know what you mean. Lemon, most of the time. Lemon and grapefruit if you’re in a good mood; lemon and lime if you’re not.’

She looked strangely pleased. ‘Could be worse,’ she said. ‘You know what they say: if little girls are made of sugar and spice and all things nice, then why do women taste of—’

‘Anchovies. Yes, I know.’

They walked across to number sixty-seven. The lawn was so close-cropped that it might have been cut with nail scissors. There were no toys in the front garden; instead, a cast-iron bird bath took pride of place. The curtains twitched as they approached.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie,’ he introduced himself to the tall, white-haired man who opened the door. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Bradbury.’

The man nodded. He was dressed in pressed slacks and a blue shirt. The skin around his neck had sagged into set folds. ‘Is this about the Neighbourhood Watch? It’s taken you long enough.’

‘No sir, it’s not about the Neighbourhood Watch. We’re making inquiries about Violet Chambers. Did you know her?’

‘Violet?’ He looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course. She lived opposite.’ He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Jean, put the kettle on, will you? We’ve got visitors.’ Turning back, he added, ‘Would you care for a cup of tea. Or coffee? I know you’re on duty, so I won’t offer you a sherry. Name’s Halloran. David Halloran.’

‘A cup of tea would be most welcome.’ Lapslie followed Halloran into the hall, wondering if anybody under the age of seventy still drank sherry. Emma followed them both.

Mrs Halloran was standing in the living room, which ran through the house from the bay windows at the front to a conservatory at the back. A backless set of shelves extended half-way across the room, dividing it roughly in two. A sofa and two armchairs covered in flowery material sat in an L-shape facing a rather old television set. The walls were decorated with Regimental badges and pictures of men in uniform. ‘Did I hear you say you were with the police?’ she asked.

‘Asking after Violet,’ her husband said. ‘Violet Chambers.’

‘Poor Violet,’ Mrs Halloran said enigmatically, and vanished into the kitchen.

Mr Halloran gestured for them to sit on the sofa. He sank into one of the armchairs. ‘Army days,’ he said, nodding at the photographs. ‘Everything from Korea through to Northern Ireland. Spend my time worrying about the little bastards playing hide-and-seek in my hedge now. Funny old thing, life.’