The Private Patient (23 page)

After a moment's silence, sensing Dalgliesh's mood, she asked, knowing that he would understand, “Do you think this is going to be bad, sir?” She meant bad for Stephen Collinsby, not for them.

“Yes, Kate, I think it may be.”

4

They had turned into the noise and heavy traffic of Marland Way. The journey wasn't easy, and Kate didn't speak except to give Dalgliesh directions until he had taken a right turn at the second set of traffic lights and they found themselves in a quieter road.

“Sir, do you think that Father Curtis will have phoned to say we're on our way?”

“Yes, he's an intelligent man. By the time we left he'll have put several puzzling facts together, the involvement of the Met, our rank—why a commander and a detective inspector if this is a routine enquiry?—the early return of his car and his friend's silence.”

“But he obviously doesn't know yet about the murder.”

“He will when he reads tomorrow's broadsheets or listens to the news. Even then I doubt whether he'll be suspecting Collinsby, but he knows that his friend may be in trouble. That's why he was determined to get in all that information about how he's transformed the school. It was an impressive testimonial.”

Kate hesitated before the next question. She knew that Dalgliesh respected her and thought that he was fond of her. Over the years she had learnt to discipline her emotions; but though the core of what she had always known was a hopeless love remained and always would, it didn't give her the freehold of his mind. There were questions better not asked, but was this one?

After a silence in which she kept her eyes on Father Curtis's instructions, she said, “You knew he'd warn his friend, but you didn't tell him not to.”

“He'll have a bad five minutes of spiritual struggle without me making it worse for him. Our man isn't going to run away.”

Another turn. Father Curtis had been optimistic in describing the school as “quite close.” Or was it the turnings, her companion's reticence or the apprehension about the coming interview which made the journey seem long?

Now a billboard. Someone had painted in streaks of black paint,
The Devil is in the Internet.
Beneath it, more precisely written,
There is
no Devil and no God.
Then the next panel, this time in red paint.
God
lives. See Book of Job.
This led to the final exhortation:
Fuck off.

Dalgliesh said, “A not uncommon ending to theological dispute but rarely so crudely expressed. I think this must be the school.”

She saw a Victorian building of patterned brick faced with stone, standing back in a large asphalt playground surrounded by tall railings. To her surprise, the gate to the playground was unlocked. A smaller and more ornate version of the main building, obviously by the same architect, was linked to it by a newer-looking corridor. Here an attempt had been made to compensate for size by ornamentation. Rows of windows and four carved stone steps led to an intimidating door which was opened to their ring so quickly that Kate suspected the headmaster had been waiting for them. She saw a spectacled man in early middle age, almost as tall as Dalgliesh, wearing a pair of old slacks and a jumper with patches of leather on the elbows.

He said, “If you'll just wait a moment, I'll lock the playground gate. There's no bell there, so I hoped you'd find your way in.” Within a minute he was back with them.

He waited while Dalgliesh showed his warrant card and introduced Kate, then said briefly, “I've been expecting you. We'll speak in my study.”

Following him through the square entrance hall and down the terrazzo-floored corridor, Kate was back in her comprehensive school. Here was the faint, almost illusory smell of paper, bodies, paint and cleaning materials. There was no smell of chalk. Did teachers ever use it now? Blackboards had largely given way to computers, even in primary schools. But gazing through the few open doors she saw no classrooms. Perhaps the formal headmaster's house was now largely devoted to his study and to seminar rooms or administration. It was obvious that he didn't live on the premises.

He stood aside to let them enter a room at the end of the corridor. It was a mixture of conference room, study and sitting room. There was a rectangular table set in front of the window with six chairs, bookshelves almost to the ceiling on the left-hand wall and the headmaster's desk, with his own chair and two before it, to the right. One wall was covered with school photographs: the chess club, a row of smiling faces with the board set up in front of them, the captain holding the small silver trophy; the football and swimming teams; the orchestra; the cast of the Christmas pantomime and a scene from what looked like
Macbeth—
wasn't it always
Macbeth,
short, suitably bloody, not too difficult to learn? An open door gave a glimpse of what was obviously a small kitchen. There was a smell of coffee.

Collinsby pulled out two chairs at the table and said, “I take it that this is a formal visit. Shall we sit here?” He seated himself at the top of the table with Dalgliesh on his right, Kate on his left. And now she could look at him fleetingly but more closely. She saw a good face, sensitive but firm-jawed, a face one saw on television advertisements chosen to inspire confidence in the actor's spiel about the bank's superiority over its competition, or to persuade the viewers that that unaffordable car could provoke envy among the neighbours. He looked younger than Kate had expected, perhaps because of the informality of his weekend clothes, and might, she thought, have shown some of the confident insouciance of youth if he hadn't looked so tired. The grey eyes, which briefly met hers and then turned to Dalgliesh, were dulled with exhaustion. But when he spoke his voice was surprisingly youthful.

Dalgliesh said, “We're making enquiries into the suspicious death of a woman at a house in Stoke Cheverell in Dorset. A Ford Focus with the number plate W
341
UDG was seen parked close to the house between eleven-thirty-five and eleven-forty on the night she died. That was last Friday, December the fourteenth. We are told that you had borrowed the car on that date. Were you driving, and were you there?”

“Yes. I was there.”

“Under what circumstances, Mr. Collinsby?”

And now Collinsby roused himself. Speaking to Dalgliesh, he said, “I want to make a statement. Not an official statement at present, although I realise that will have to come. I want to explain to you why I was there, and to do it now just as events come into my mind, without even worrying how they sound or what the effect of them might be. I know you'll have questions and I'll try to answer them, but it would be helpful if I could first just tell the truth without interruption. I was going to say, tell what happened in my own words, but what other words have I?”

Dalgliesh said, “Perhaps that would be the best way to start.”

“I'll try not to make it too long. The story has become complicated, but basically it's very simple. I won't go into details about my early life, my parents, my upbringing. I'll just say that I knew from childhood that I wanted to teach. I got a scholarship to a grammar school, and later a major county award to Oxford. I read history. After my degree, I gained a place at London University to take a teacher-training course leading to a Diploma in Education. This took a year. Once I'd qualified I decided to take a year off before applying for a job. I felt I had been breathing academic air for too long and needed to travel, to experience something of the world, to meet people from other walks of life before I began teaching. I'm sorry, I've got ahead of myself. We need to return to the time when I gained my place at London University.

“My parents had always been poor—not distressingly poor, but every pound counted—and any money I needed had to be saved either from my grant or from working in the holidays. So when I went to London I needed to find somewhere cheap to live. The city centre was obviously too expensive and I had to look further afield. A friend who had gained a place the year before was lodging in Gidea Park, an Essex suburb, and suggested I try there. It was when I was visiting him that I saw an advertisement outside a tobacconist's shop for a room suitable for a student in Silford Green, only two further stations on the East London line. There was a phone number, so I rang and went to the house. It was semi-detached, occupied by a docker, Stanley Beale, his wife and their two daughters—Shirley, who was eleven, and her younger sister, Lucy, aged eight. Their maternal grandmother also lived in the house. There wasn't really room for a lodger. The grandmother shared the largest bedroom with the two girls, and Mr. and Mrs. Beale had the second bedroom at the back. I had the third and smallest bedroom, also at the back. But it was cheap, close to the station, the journey was quick and easy and I was desperate. The first week fulfilled my worst fears. The husband and wife were on shouting terms; the grandmother, a sour, disagreeable old woman, was obviously resentful that she was basically a child minder, and whenever we met was full of complaints about her pension, the local council, her daughter's frequent absences, her son-in-law's mean insistence that she contribute towards her keep. As I was in London most days and often worked late in the University library, I avoided the worst of the family disputes. Within a week of my arrival, after a quarrel of house-shaking ferocity, Beale finally walked out. I could have done the same, but what kept me there was the younger daughter, Lucy.”

He paused. The silence lengthened and no one interrupted him. He raised his head to look at Dalgliesh, and Kate could hardly bear to watch the anguish she saw.

He said, “How can I describe her to you? How can I make you understand? She was an enchanting child. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She had grace, gentleness, a fine intelligence. I began getting home early so that I could study in my room and Lucy would join me before she went to bed. She used to knock on my door and come in to sit quietly and read while I was working. I would bring home books, and when I stopped writing to make coffee for myself and a milk drink for her, we would talk. I tried to answer her questions. We spoke about the book she'd been reading. I can see her now. Her clothes looked as if her mother had found them in a jumble sale, long summer dresses in winter under a shapeless cardigan, short socks and sandals. If she was cold she never said so. Some weekends I would ask her mother if I could take her up to London to a museum or gallery. There was never any problem; she was glad to have her out of the way, particularly when she was bringing her men home. I knew what was going on, of course, but it wasn't my responsibility. I wouldn't have stayed except for Lucy. I loved her.”

Again there was a silence; then he said, “I know what you're going to ask. Was this a sexual relationship? I can only say that even the thought would have been a blasphemy for me. I never touched her in that way. But it was love. And isn't love always to some extent physical? Not sexual but physical? A delight in the beauty and grace of the one who is loved? You see, I'm a schoolmaster. I know all the questions I shall be asked. ‘Were any of your actions inappropriate?' How can one answer that in an age when even to put your arm round the shoulders of a weeping child is regarded as inappropriate? No, it was never inappropriate, but who is ever going to believe me?”

There was a prolonged silence. After a minute Dalgliesh asked, “At this time, was Shirley Beale, now Sharon Bateman, living in the house?”

“Yes. She was the older sister, a difficult, morose, uncommunicative child. It was hard to believe that they were sisters. She had a disconcerting habit of staring at people, not speaking, just looking, an accusatory look, more adult than childish. I suppose I should have realised that she was unhappy—well, I must have realised it—but it wasn't something I felt I could help. I did once suggest to Lucy, when I'd planned to take her to London to see Westminster Abbey, that Shirley might like to come too. Lucy said, ‘Yes, you ask her,' and I did. I can't remember what response I got—something about not wanting to go to boring London to see the boring Abbey with boring me. But I know I was relieved that I'd brought myself to ask and she'd refused. After that, I needn't bother again. I suppose I should have realised what she was feeling—the neglect, the rejection—but I was twenty-two, and I hadn't the sensitivity to recognise her pain or to deal with it.”

And now Kate interposed. She said, “Was it your responsibility to deal with it? You weren't her father. If things were going wrong in the family it was for them to deal with the problems.”

He turned to her, almost, it seemed, with relief. “That's what I tell myself now. I'm not sure I believe it. It wasn't a comfortable house for me or for any of them. If it hadn't been for Lucy I would have looked elsewhere. Because of her I stayed until the end of my year. After I qualified as a teacher, I decided to start on the planned journey. I'd never been abroad except for a school trip to Paris, and I went first to the obvious places—Rome, Madrid, Vienna, Siena, Verona—and then on to India and Sri Lanka. At first I sent postcards to Lucy, sometimes two a week.”

Dalgliesh said, “It's probable Lucy never received your cards. We think they were intercepted by Shirley. They've been found cut in half and buried beside one of the Cheverell Stones.”

He didn't explain what the stones were. But then, thought Kate, did he need to?

“After a time I stopped sending them, thinking that Lucy had either forgotten me or was busy with her school life; that I had been an important influence for a time, but not a lasting one. And the awful thing is this: in a way, I was relieved. I had a career to carve out for myself, and perhaps Lucy would have been a responsibility as well as a joy. And I was looking for adult love—aren't we all in our youth? I learnt of the murder when I was in Sri Lanka. For a moment I was physically sick with shock and horror, and, of course, I grieved for the child I had loved. But later, when I remembered that year with Lucy, it was like a dream, and the grief was an unfocused sorrow for all ill-treated and murdered children and for the death of innocence. Perhaps that was because I now had a child. I didn't write to the mother or grandmother to commiserate. I never mentioned to anyone that I had known the family. I felt absolutely no responsibility for her death. I had none. I did feel some shame and regret that I'd not continued trying to keep in touch, but that passed. Even when I returned home, the police didn't contact me to question me. Why should they? Shirley had confessed, and the evidence was overwhelming. The only explanation anyone ever received was that she had killed Lucy because her sister was too pretty.”