Red Crystal (41 page)

She fluffed out her grey curls and wondered whether to get dressed. No, it was better to stay in her dressing-gown. It would sound more
dramatic
when she told everyone in the morning.

She went back downstairs, turned some lights on, and put on the kettle for some tea. She had butterflies in her stomach.

The doorbell rang and she clasped her hands together in pleasure.

She opened the door with a warm smile. There were two of them. She recognized the nice Inspector Morrow immediately. ‘Good evening, inspector,’ she said graciously.

She turned to examine the second man and suppressed a deep disappointment. This couldn’t be the Scotland Yard detective. This person was frightfully young, with longish hair and blue jeans.

They came in and Inspector Morrow said, ‘This is Sergeant Ryder from Scotland Yard.’

So, he was from the Yard. But only a
sergeant
.

Never mind. She determined to make the best of it. She led the way into the lounge and asked them to sit down. She noticed that the sergeant was rather good-looking. She smiled, ‘How can I help you?’

The inspector began, ‘Er, it’s a delicate subject, Mrs Ackroyd. It’s about Bradbury’s. We wanted to know a few personal details about some of the people who work there. About Mr Wilson, for example.’

‘Mr Wilson?’ she repeated curiously. ‘Oh-h-h.’

‘Yes. We wondered if you could tell us if he had any children?’

She blinked in surprise. What on earth had this to do with the robbery? ‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘there was a daughter, I believe.’

‘What was her name?’ the sergeant asked.

‘Her name? Now let me see … Yes, Linda. Linda.’

The sergeant put a hand to his eyes and inhaled sharply as if something had just come back to him. Then he exchanged glances with the inspector, and gave him a firm nod.

Mabel Ackroyd felt a small twinge of alarm. ‘May I ask
why
you are asking me these questions?’

The young man replied, ‘It’s very important that we know about Linda Wilson, Mrs Ackroyd. Is she – er –
dead
?’

‘Dead? Well, not as far as I
know
. I mean – one would have
heard
if she was. Goodness …’ She put a hand to her bosom. ‘Is she meant to be dead?’

‘Can you tell us anything more about her, Mrs Ackroyd?’

The sergeant hadn’t actually answered her question. She felt rather put out. ‘Well, I don’t know the Wilsons well, you understand. They keep themselves to themselves. But I do remember Linda. I used to see her quite often. She was my own daughter’s age, you see. Although they weren’t friends, as such. She was clever, you see, Linda. She went to a grammar school, and then to university. She was very clever.’

‘Anything else about her? What was she like?’

‘Oh, quiet. A bit withdrawn, really. She – was very protected, you know. An only child, of course. Always neatly dressed. Always well behaved. Until she was about fifteen.’

‘What happened then?’

‘She went wild.’

Mrs Ackroyd enjoyed the effect of her words. The two police officers were positively drinking them up.

‘Wild? Do you mean with boys?’

‘Yes. And in every other way. Her clothes – well, once I saw her wearing the shortest skirt you’ve ever seen. And make-up! Well, you could have scraped it off her face.’

‘What sort of friends did she have?’

‘Oh, arty types. Layabouts. Not what her parents wanted, not at all.’

‘Have you seen her recently?’

‘Oh no. She’s never been back. Her parents washed their hands of her, you see. When she went away to university. They never forgave her. Never.’

‘What for?’ the sergeant asked.

‘For being so wild. And outrageous. She was very outspoken. They never forgave her for being so –
ungrateful
, I think.’

The young sergeant stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ackroyd.’

‘But aren’t you going to tell me what this is all about? I mean, is it about the robbery? Was
Linda
involved in some way?’

The inspector said quickly, ‘Something like that.’

She jumped up. ‘But you haven’t had any tea.’

The sergeant said, ‘Another time.’ He fixed his gaze on her. ‘Can I ask you a favour, Mrs Ackroyd?’

He was giving her such a charming look that she revised her opinion of him. He was obviously very bright and clever as well as being good-looking. It suddenly occurred to her that, despite being a sergeant, he might be important after all. She swelled with pride.

‘Of course.’

‘May I ask you not to say anything about the –
nature
of our conversation?’

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. That was going to be very difficult. She’d already planned how she was going to announce it in the office.

‘Just for a day or so. Until we’ve completed our inquiries. It’s important.’

Ah,
now
she understood. It was hush-hush. He was an undercoverman. That explained the jeans. She breathed, ‘Of
course
.’

It was only after she’d closed the door behind them that she remembered something else. Good Lord, how could she have forgotten? She threw open the door and called down the path, ‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there?’

The young sergeant re-emerged from the darkness. ‘Yes?’

‘I completely forgot – she once told me that she was
adopted
, Linda did. But it can’t have been true. I mean, one would have heard. Probably one of her little fancies.’

The young man blinked. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ackroyd.’

After they’d gone she made herself a cup of tea and sat up for a while thinking how exciting it had all been.

Then she thought about poor Mr and Mrs Wilson, and how awful it was going to be for them, and felt rather sad.

The house was situated in a quiet residential street, set back from the road behind a tall hedge. It was a house with, Nick guessed, about four bedrooms. There was a light shining in the porch, but otherwise the place was in darkness. A path led from the gate to the front door through a neat ordered garden, the rose beds well dug and covered with manure, ready for the winter.

As they rang the bell Nick noticed a sliver of light showing through a chink in the heavily curtained windows. Someone was still up.

It was a good minute before they heard someone approach the door. Finally a bolt was pulled back, and the door was opened a short way. The face of a woman appeared, but standing well back out of the harsh light from the porch. The woman was small and grey-haired.

Inspector Morrow went through the formalities of identifying himself, then asked if they might come in.

The woman did not reply, but stared at them as if in shock. Nick realized that she had been crying.

She retreated further into the shadow of the hall, and glanced to one side. Suddenly the door was pulled wide open, and Leonard Wilson stepped into the light. He did not look surprised to see them.

He said stiffly, ‘You’ll want to come in, I suppose.’

They were shown into the living-room, a vaguely oppressive room densely furnished with a brown Dralon three-piece suite, numerous side tables and occasional chairs, lamps with deep fringes, and heavy velvet curtains. Every surface was covered in china ornaments and bric-à -brac. The walls were decorated with a busy beige and tan wallpaper.

The four of them sat down.

Morrow began, ‘I believe you have a daughter, Mr and Mrs Wilson. By the name of Linda?’

Leonard Wilson replied, ‘Yes.’

‘And she’s not dead, is she?’

‘She is to us.’ He closed his eyes for an instant, as if reinforcing an inner resolve.

Morrow paused. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘Four years ago.’

‘And you’ve had no communication with her since then?’

‘None.’

‘She – hasn’t visited the neighbourhood recently?’

‘No. Not that we are aware of.’

Nick said, ‘Mr Wilson, you recognized some names on that list that I showed you. Which were they?’

Wilson stared at him. With an effort he replied, ‘There were a couple that she might have mentioned … Friends of hers at Essex University. Members of that political group – the Socialist League or whatever it was. She brought one of them home once.’ His mouth curled up with distaste.

‘What was his name?’

For the first time Leonard Wilson’s face showed some emotion. He dropped his eyes. ‘Wheatfield.’

There was a long silence. Nick asked, ‘When was this?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Probably four or five years ago.’

Mrs Wilson spoke for the first time. ‘It was four and a half years ago exactly.’ Her voice was thin and tired and defeated. ‘In May.’

Nick glanced around the room, searching the tables and mantelpiece for photographs. There were only two, and they were faded pictures of the young Mr and Mrs Wilson taken, he guessed, during the war.

‘Do you have any photographs of your daughter, Mrs Wilson?’

She had buried her head in her hand and he realized that she was weeping.

Nick said, ‘I’m sorry, but – if you
could
find something …’

She dabbed at her eyes and got up. ‘I’ll go and look.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

She nodded her assent, and Nick followed her upstairs into a spare room which seemed to be used as both study and store room. She knelt on the floor and, unlocking one of the desk drawers, pulled out a box.

She started to open it, then paused. Her head fell on to her chest and Nick realized she was crying again.

‘You’ll use this to find her, won’t you?’ she whispered.

Nick sighed. He could only tell her the truth. ‘Yes.’

‘And – she’ll be locked away.’

‘Yes, eventually.’

She shook her head from side to side. ‘Nothing but pain. Always. Always the same. Nothing but pain.’

Eventually she blew her nose and taking a deep breath, opened the box.

Nick looked over her shoulder. Baby pictures. A toddler firmly gripping an adult hand. A small girl in a gymslip. The family on a beach somewhere. Then older, about twelve.

Nick stared.

He felt a twinge of alarm.

There was something vaguely
familiar
—

He frowned and very slowly reached out for the photograph.

‘The more recent ones are at the bottom,’ Mrs Wilson murmured.

Nick’s mouth had gone very dry. He stared, horrified yet transfixed, as Mrs Wilson pulled a large black and white portrait from the bottom of the box.

Everything stood still.

Then he heard himself cry, ‘
Oh Christ. Oh God
.’

For a moment he was incredulous.

Then the shock came to him like a pain, a small ache which grew and grew until it was vast and ugly.

‘
Oh God, oh God
.’

He tried to find another answer, but he knew there was none. And then the realizations came thick and fast, each more ghastly than the one before, each tearing away a new layer of horror like so many layers of skin torn from a wound.

He felt physically ill. He wanted to be sick.

Mrs Wilson’s voice came from far away, shrill and frightened. ‘What’s the matter?
What’s the matter
?’ He heard her get up and hurriedly leave the room.

He put a fist to his mouth and bit into it until it hurt.

Henry Northcliff dreamed that he was standing at the dispatch box in the House of Commons. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say. Something ghastly had happened: he’d been caught out in some way, and the members were shouting, ‘Resign! Resign!’ A member of the Cabinet was shaking him by the shoulder, trying to get him to sit down.

He awoke with a start, and realized he was in bed at home. Caroline was shaking him gently by the shoulder.

He twisted round. ‘What is it?’

‘I heard a sound. A sort of scraping noise. From downstairs …’

Henry listened, but apart from the humming of the wind the night was silent.

Caroline said, ‘It’s probably nothing. I’m sorry.’

Henry roused himself and, throwing back the covers, swung his legs to the floor.

Caroline said ruefully, ‘Oh darling, don’t bother. Honestly.’

‘I’m up now.’

He pulled on a dressing-gown and went out to the landing. He listened for a moment, then, turning on the light, went downstairs. He noticed it was just after one o’clock. He made the rounds of each room, checking the doors and windows.

Finally he went to the front door and peered through the peephole. In the dim street lighting he could just make out the figure of the policeman at the front gate, pacing slowly back and forth.

He turned back and listened again. Nothing.

He switched off the lights and started to climb the stairs again.

There was a sound. He paused to listen.

From the distance, beyond the kitchen, there was a definite noise, a faint screech.

He retraced his steps and went into the kitchen. He crossed the room and looked out of the window into the garden. The night was very dark. It was impossible to distinguish much apart from the outline of the trees, which were swaying frantically back and forth, pulled by the wind.

The sound came again, more like a wail than a screech. He went to the back door which opened on to the side of the house, and unlocked it.

He put his head out. The wind came whistling down the side of the building and blew at his hair. He peered towards the boundary fence and the dim silhouette of his neighbour’s house.

Suddenly it came again. A high screech.

He stood listening.

Suddenly he gave a small snort of amusement.

He closed and relocked the door, then hurried back upstairs.

Caroline was sitting up in bed waiting.

‘Oh poor darling,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t anything, I suppose.’

‘A branch. Rubbing against the Collins’ greenhouse. It’s the wind.’ He got back into bed and she snuggled against him.

‘Poor darling. What an idiot I am.’

‘Not at all. I’m glad you woke me. Otherwise you might have stayed awake worrying. You weren’t awake long, were you?’

‘No. Well – only a few minutes.’

‘You should have woken me sooner.’

They lay for a while in the darkness, listening to the wind.