Wings over the Watcher (19 page)

So they returned to the little handbag shop on the High
Street. But this time Joanna had no intention of playing friendly with her. No more acting soft. She was beginning to feel angry and impatient with a casual and uninterested public.

She entered the shop in truculent mood and didn’t make any attempt to return Jewel’s smile. “I think you’d better put the
Closed for half an hour
sign up,” Joanna said. “It’s time you were a bit more honest with me.”

Jewel said nothing but raised her eyebrows, marched to the door, turned the sign around, put the lock down and marched back to her post behind the counter, all the time keeping her eyes on Joanna with an air of frank defiance, waiting for the detective to speak.

“You knew that Guy Priestley had been ‘making up’ to Beatrice, didn’t you?” Joanna accused.

She got the distinct feeling that Jewel’s response was one of relief.

“It was nothing,” she said quickly, studying her fingernails, which had been freshly rebuilt, squared off and painted white. French fingernails. “
Nothing
. Do you understand me? There was no harm in it. It was just a laugh. No one took it seriously.”

“Except Beatrice.”

“Well – that was the trouble. She hadn’t much experience of that sort of thing. I mean it’s obvious Guy’s quite a hunk. Another woman would have been on her guard but Beattie. It just made us laugh. And she got quite
up herself.
Know what I mean?”

“Unfortunately I do,” Joanna said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

The picture was a cruel one, the three of them – her two best friends and Guy all laughing behind their hands at poor old Beatrice. Joanna sat down opposite the false friend and leaned across the counter. “Not much of a friend, are you?”

Jewel looked away, out of the window, at a couple of shoppers who were trying the door. No mention today of selling Joanna a handbag. Jewel Pirtek was a woman on the
defensive. Joanna was curious to know how she would excuse her disloyalty.

“It was just a joke.”

Joanna studied her face. There was a trace of shame there, giving her normal glamour a tinge of sadness that made her look suddenly vulnerable.

She continued looking.

So did she really suspect one friend of murdering another?

No. It was no motive.

“Tell me about it,” Joanna prompted, keeping one eye on Korpanski for his reaction.

“I think…”

“Never mind what you think. Your
friend
is dead. Understand? I believe that somewhere along the line this cruel practical joke contributed to her murder.”

“No it didn’t.”

“Sure of that, are you?” Mike had stepped forward and even from ten paces Joanna could feel the heat of his anger.

But Jewel Pirtek was Korpanski’s equal. She stood up. “Yes, I am bloody sure. It was just a bit of fun.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Sergeant. Really.”

It was up to Joanna to take the heat out of the situation. “Tell me about it.”

“Well it was obvious that Beatrice was as jealous as hell of Marilyn’s success with Guy. She was always making little comments about him like how lucky she was and what a nice body he had.” Jewel gave a frank look over her half-moon bifocals. “At first it really surprised us. It was so out of character. It just wasn’t her at all. We thought it was funny. And then we got sort of sick of it so Marilyn said if Guy came over all strong it would shut her up and she’d stop going on about him.”

“Was she worried? Did she see Beatrice as a potential rival?”

“No. I kept telling her…”

Which meant she
had
been worried.

“So Guy did pounce on her. Did it have the desired effect?”

“No. It made her worse. She was convinced he fancied her rotten.”

“At this point did Marilyn believe that Guy was attracted to Beatrice?”

The first sign of hesitation. “No.”

Korpanski and Joanna simply waited.

“She told Guy it had to finish.”

“Then?”

“She came across them together. It was a shock. I mean – she’d never really trusted Guy. She knew what he was like and that one day he’d move on to…” Jewel Pirtek made a wry face “fresh pastures. She just hadn’t thought it would be with someone like Beatrice. It was that
bloody
adoration,” she said, frowning. “He just fed on it. Like all men.”

Korpanski’s eyes opened wide.

“Is it possible,” Joanna asked slowly, “that Marilyn was jealous enough to – ?”

“No. No. Surely not. I mean.”

But Joanna could tell that the thought had crossed Jewel’s mind.

Joanna had put this off for as long as she dared. Now she simply had to do it even though she already knew it could lose her two very good friends. But she knew from bitter experience that the minute she donned her policeman’s helmet even friends could leak away like the sand in an egg timer. Not for the first time her career threatened to come between her and people she both liked and respected.

But it was her job and she owed it to the unfortunate Beatrice. She sighed so heavily Korpanski glanced across at her. “You all right, Jo?”

“Yes – and no,” she said.

He bent back towards the computer screen, avoided looking at her and asked casually, “Anything I can help with?”

She reassured him quickly. “It’s nothing to do with Matthew. I was just thinking I should talk to some of the other members of the cycling club. It’s just possible…” She didn’t need to say any more.

Korpanski stood up. All six feet plus of him. “I’ll come with you.”

She smiled at him, feeling a sudden rush of affection for the burly sergeant. Mike Korpanski would always do this, blunder into situations without realising it was the delicate touch which sometimes produced results. Delicate was not an adjective she would ever use to describe him. Yet he meant well. And sometimes his blunderbuss methods did produce results. But it is strange, she reflected, this relationship which builds up when two colleagues work closely together, even two such contrasting personalities. He knew her methods and she knew his.

She put a restraining hand on his arm. “I think it would make less waves if I went alone,” she said. “He who hunts alone, and all that?”

“OK.”

Lynn Oakamoor lived in a neat house on a modern development. Basically curving streets of individually designed brick-built houses, each with their own short drive and garage, neat front gardens sporting geraniums, miniature trees and some very imaginative stonework. It was typical Middle-England. Lynn and her husband had worked hard to afford this place and they kept it immaculately. A well-polished Fiat Uno sat on a drive you could have eaten your dinner from. As Joanna parked the police car close to the kerb she saw a movement at the window. Her friend was in. What she dreaded as she walked up the drive and squeezed passed the car was her friend’s initial smile being replaced by a hostile glare when she told her the real reason for her visit.

Lynn answered the door quickly and with pure delight. “Joanna.”

She quickly disillusioned her. “Hello, Lynn. Look – I’m sorry. This isn’t a social call.”

The surprise on her friend’s face was almost as hurtful as the raised eyebrows. “Oh. Well come in anyway.” She led her through the lounge, tossing back a comment. “So. I assume it’s about Beatrice Pennington?”

“Yes.” With relief Joanna took her seat in the UPVC conservatory furnished in Indian cane and cheese plants. “Lynn,” she said frankly. “We’re not getting on as well as we’d hoped. To put it bluntly, we’re stuck.”

“Poor Joanna,” her friend said dryly. “Must be awful. So how do you think I can help?”

“Go over the conversations you had with her,” Joanna pleaded. “At some point she
must
have said something of significance to you.”

Lynn was quickly on the defensive. “Why me? She’s just as likely to have said something to you.” Already the distance between them was widening.

“I know what she’s said to me,” Joanna said. “I’ve gone over and over everything. I couldn’t think of anything. That’s why I came to you.”

Her words mollified the situation a bit. Lynn leaned right back in the chair and let out a hearty sigh.

“You did
listen
to her, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes. But it was nothing very interesting. She talked about men being insensitive. Said that women listened more, that they were gentler, less brash. I think she said something about touching.” She screwed her face up. “It was just mumbo jumbo. Something about the power of touching. To be honest, Jo, I can’t stand all this sort of rubbish. I must admit. I did switch off. She was full of beliefs and trust, a feeling that the world was really not such a bad place as we all thought. I can’t remember
exactly
the words she used but you know the sort of thing.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, Jo. Not that I can remember.”

“Did she say anything about her husband?”

“She
mentioned
him.”

“In what vein?”

“Just that she found him boring, that there were no surprises left, that there was nothing hidden from her, that she’d got to the end of his character…” Lynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever
that’s
supposed to mean. She wasn’t exactly deep herself. She spoke a lot about losing weight, about the life she was going to lead when she got to her target weight, how fit she felt, clothes. Confidence. New life. She talked some twaddle about love.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Complete tripe. Real romantic stuff. Almost Mills and Boon-y. You know the sort of thing, knees trembling, tingling feeling all over her body, heightened awareness.”

“We think she was in love with another woman,” Joanna said reluctantly.

Lynn opened her blue eyes wide. “Really? She didn’t strike me as a lesbian. She seemed. I assumed she was hetero. You knew her as well or as little as we did. What did
you
think?”

Joanna thought back to a rainy Sunday morning in the
middle of June. Beatrice had arrived early. They had been the first ones there and she had sensed Beatrice was in the mood for a confidence. But she had arrived depressed. She had heard nothing from Matthew and the miscarriage had suddenly and inexplicably seemed terribly sad. Maybe it had been the hormones but listening to Beatrice’s chatter had been beyond her so she had straddled her bike and stared in the direction from where she knew the others would come, hoping Beatrice would stay silent. Then she had turned around and read her eyes. Brown cow eyes, very appealing. Something very happy and excited in her face and she had felt guilty that she had been so wrapped up in her own problems. Joanna frowned away the unexpectedly vivid picture. Beatrice had seemed fulfilled – and dumb. Dumb in the American sense of bordering on stupid. No. That wasn’t right. Dumb in the sense of being animal, manipulated and used, lacking control over her fate.

And now the memory provoked the same feeling of discomfort. Joanna stood up quickly. “Did she say
anything
that might give us a clue?”

“No,” Lynn said. “If she had I would have been the first to get in touch with you.” She sounded hurt.

“Well – if you do recall anything else you will ring me, won’t you? You know my number.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still coming on Sunday?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.” But her friend’s voice had chilled into formality.

All sorts joined the cycling club. Sport is the great unifier. Pagan, in contrast to Lynn, lived in a tiny terraced house with her four children and even as Joanna lifted her hand to knock on the battered front door she could hear noise. Lots of it. Children shouting, pop music thumping, the sound of a washing machine whirring bronchitically.

She had to bang loudly to provoke any response. Pagan answered the door abruptly, a pair of eyes peering from
behind her. “Joanna,” she said with genuine amazement. “What on earth brings you here? Come in. Come in.”

There was as much contrast between the two houses as there was in the two women. Pagan’s was a tip. Washing strewn across the backs of chairs, books, fallen open on the floor, the TV blaring out. From upstairs thumped the thud of a bass guitar. There was not one spare inch of space. And two teenagers, disproportionately large compared to the size of the room, lolling across the chairs filled the airspace too. The house was filled with the scent of old fried food and Joanna spied a plate tucked underneath the settee.

“Come in the kitchen,” Pagan said, vaguely searching around for a spare chair. “We can at least talk in there.”

Joanna followed her into the tiny kitchen, messily painted green with pine units. Every cupboard door was wide open so you could see into fat-stained shelves. There were piles of dishes over every surface. Joanna parked herself on one of the kitchen chairs and as concisely as possible repeated the conversation she had just had with Lynn Oakmaoor. Pagan was less resentful at being questioned and her dark eyes opened wide in sympathy. It struck Joanna that she badly wanted to help.

And yet – this too can hamper police investigations. It was no use putting ideas into her head. She wanted the whole truth only. Pagan chewed her lip for a minute as Joanna stumbled through her lines.

“I liked Beattie,” she said. “But she was the most frightful prude, you know?”

“No?”

Pagan puffed out a long sigh. “Ridiculous really. So screwed up about sex.”

“Really?”

Pagan smothered her giggle with her hand. “Oh yes. She asked me all sorts of weird and wonderful things.”

“Like what?”

“Sex toys, same-sex sex, how women managed it.” She gave a throaty laugh. “Why the hell she was asking me I
really don’t know. My life is devoid of anything
that
interesting. All
my
energy is taken up with managing this.” She waved her arms around her. She met Joanna’s eyes with a frank stare of her own and a hint of shame at her levity. “I’m all right if I forget she’s dead,” she said. “I can cope then. If I laugh I’m fine. It’s when I think that some bastard. Oh excuse me but that’s what he is. When I think he’s just killed her I get really angry. I want to hit and punch.”

“Who?”

“Him.”

“Do you know who
him
is?”

“I just know he’s young. And I also know that he made a fool of her and that she knew it. She felt stupid.”

Joanna was giving away nothing. Although she could guess who this person was she said nothing, simply, “Do you have a name?”

“No. I just have a picture of some arrogant bloke having a laugh at her expense. Luckily for her she met someone else.”

Joanna was listening with every single fibre of her body. “Someone else?” she said casually.

“A woman who healed her with her sympathy and kindness and the laying on of hands.”

The laying on of hands and the casting out of devils. The question remained. Who killed her? Her jealous husband, this young lover – or someone connected with him? The woman who had finally shown her such kindness – or someone connected with her?

The circle spun, expanding at the same time.

It was obvious that Pagan’s way of thinking was nearer to Beattie Pennington’s than was Lynn’s. “Do you know who she is, this woman?”

“Just bits. It was obvious that Beattie didn’t want people to know. I know for a fact that she has warm brown eyes. I know she is a professional woman whom Beattie met through her work.”

“Whose work? Beatrice’s or the woman?”

“The woman’s, I think.” Pagan frowned. “That was the impression I got.”

“I know that she was seeing her during the week that she last came out cycling with us, the week of the 13th of June.”

“Do you know the day? The place? The time?”

“No. Only that it was sometime that week.. I think she said she had an appointment.”

“Try and remember. Was it hair? A dentist?”

“Wait a minute. She was talking about her excitement, that she was going to buy herself something new.”

“Something new,” Joanna echoed. “Something new.”

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Blue as in Beatrice Pennington’s lips.

She needed to get hold of her diary.

A row was breaking out at Corinne Angiotti’s house. Pete was standing, facing her, a letter in his hand. One of
the
letters. He’d found the drawer in her desk at home where she had put the overflow from her surgery.

“I’ve thought many things about you, Corinne,” he jeered. “I know you’re not over-keen on sex. I know some days you look at me as though you can’t stand me. I know you despise me and dislike me for dragging you here when you were doing so well in your London clinic. I just didn’t think you’d stoop to this.”

“I haven’t stooped to anything,” Corinne defended herself. “The woman is a deranged patient. Obsessed and sick. Lonely and misguided.”

“She’s also dead.”

Corinne said nothing but regarded her husband calmly.

He, on the other hand, was red and sweating, his emotions gaining control. “It strikes me, Corinne, that I don’t know you, do I?”

“So what do you think you have just found out about me?”

“That you have been carrying on some sort of affair with another woman and on top of that she is a patient of yours. History repeats itself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It says here.” Pete Angiotti was beside himself. His eyes were bulging with fury.
“When you touch me I am alive.”

He looked up. “I don’t know how you can be so barefaced as to deny it when it says it all here.”

“I told you,” she said coldly. “The woman was a deranged patient. That’s all. A nutcase. A sad woman. Misguided and deluded. She believed herself in love with me and that I returned this love. It was pathetic. I simply felt sorry for her.” She felt tired and defeated. “I kept trying to return her to reality. I kept pointing out that one day she would feel really stupid about it but all she did was to put various outfits on and make appointments. I was frightened, Pete. I thought she might just convince someone from the General Medical Council that I’d made advances to her.”

“That is just the sort of explanation I would expect you to make. And now she’s dead and can neither confirm nor deny it so I’ll never know.”

It was this that finally defeated her. Pete would never believe her version. Therefore she would have this sitting on her shoulder – for ever. It struck her then how very tired she was. For months now her nightmare had been that Beatrice Pennington would make a complaint to the General Medical Council and they would spend years investigating. All that time she might be suspended from practice and the newspapers would have a field day – as they had for her husband. What a fine pair they were – the teacher husband who assaulted a pupil and the doctor wife who has an affair with a patient. Both abusing their positions of trust – except she hadn’t. But the public have scant sympathy for professionals who mistreat the very people they are paid to protect. This small town would quickly turn hostile. Who would believe
her
? Husband and wife would be tarred with the same brush? She had watched doctors have their careers ruined by just such patients and wondered. Maligned? Guilty? Innocent? Who would ever know? And the pundits are right. Mud does stick. So hard that when it
is removed it takes some of your skin away. You can never be the same again. How many times had she gone over and over each early consultation and wondered how she might have turned away the flood of emotion. What had
she
done to invite this devotion? Because if she did not know then it could happen again and again and again.