4     

When a pretty woman ages, a man’s reaction is usually to reflect on how lovely she must once have been. This was not Nancy Lake’s effect. There was something very much of the here and now about her. When with her you thought no more of her youth and her coming old age than you think of spring or Christmas when you are enjoying late summer. She was of the season in which they were, a harvest-time woman, who brought to mind grape festivals and ripened fruit and long warm nights. These thoughts came to Wexford much later. As he led her into his office, he was aware only of how extremely pleasing this diversion was in the midst of murder and recalcitrant witnesses and fingerprints and missing cars. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a diversion. Happy is the man who can combine pleasure and business …

‘What a nice room,’ she said. Her voice was low and sweet and lively. ‘I thought police stations were brown and murky with photographs on the walls of great brutes all wanted for robbing banks.’ She glanced with warm approval at his carpet, his yellow chairs, his rosewood desk. ‘This is lovely. And what a nice view over all those delicious little roofs. May I sit down?’

Wexford was already holding the chair for her. He was recalling what Dora had said about this woman being ‘very much for the men’ and added to this statement one of his own: that the men would be very much for her. She was dark. Her hair was abundant and of a rich chestnut brown, probably dyed. But her skin had kept a rose and amber glow, the texture of a peach, and a delicate light seemed to shine from beneath its surface as is sometimes seen in the faces of young girls or children, but which is rarely retained into middle age. The red lips seemed always on the edge of a smile. It was as if she knew some delightful secret which she would almost, but never wholly, divulge. Her dress was just what, in Wexford’s opinion, a woman’s dress should be, full in the skirt, tight in the waist, of mauve and blue printed cotton, its low neck showing an inch or two of the upper slopes of a full golden bosom. She saw that he was studying her and she seemed to enjoy his scrutiny, basking in it, understanding more thoroughly than he himself what it meant.

He shifted his gaze abruptly. ‘You live in the house at the Kingsmarkham end of Wool Lane, I believe?’

‘It’s called Sunnybank. I always think that sounds like a mental hospital. But my late husband chose the name and I expect he had his reasons.’

Wexford made a determined and eventually successful attempt to look grave. ‘Were you a friend of Mrs Hathall’s?’

‘Oh, no.’ He thought she was capable of saying she had no women friends, which would have displeased him, but she didn’t. ‘I only went there for the miracles.’

‘The what?’

‘An in-joke. I’m sorry. I meant the yellow egg plums.’

‘Ah, mixabelles.’ This was the second malapropism of his day, but he decided this particular instance was a deliberate mistake. ‘You went there yesterday to pick plums?’

‘I always do. Every year. I used to when old Mr Somerset lived there, and when the Hathalls came they said I could have them. I make them into jam.’

He had a sudden vision of Nancy Lake standing in a sun-filled kitchen, stirring a pot full of the golden fruit. He smelt the scent of it, saw her face as she dipped in a finger and brought it to those full red lips. The vision threatened to develop into a fantasy. He shook it off. ‘When did you go there?’

The roughness in his voice made her eyebrows go up. ‘I phoned Angela at nine in the morning and asked if I could go up there and pick them. I’d noticed they were falling. She seemed quite pleased—for her. She wasn’t a very gracious person, you know.’

‘I don’t know. I hope you’ll tell me.’

She moved her hands a little, deprecatingly, casually. ‘She said to come about half past twelve. I picked the plums and she gave me a cup of coffee. I think she only asked me in to show me how nice the house looked.’

‘Why? Didn’t it always look nice?’

‘Goodness, no. Not that I care, that was her business. I’m not much for housework myself, but Angela’s house was usually a bit of pigsty. Anyway, it was a mess last March which was when I was last in it. She told me she’d cleaned it up to impress Robert’s mother.’

Wexford nodded. He had to make an effort of will to continue questioning her in this impersonal way, for she exercised a spell, the magical combination of feminine niceness and strong sexuality. But the effort had to be made. ‘Did she tell you she was expecting another caller, Mrs Lake?’

‘No, she said she was going out in the car, but she didn’t say where.’ Nancy Lake leant across the desk rather earnestly, bringing her face to within a foot of his. Her perfume was fruity and warm. ‘She asked me in and gave me coffee, but as soon as I’d had one cup she seemed to want to get rid of me. That’s what I meant by saying she only wanted to show me how nice the house looked.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Let me see. It would have been just before half past one. But I was only in the house ten minutes. The rest of the time I was picking the miracles.’

The temptation to remain close to that vital, mobile and somehow mischievous face was great, but it had to be resisted. Wexford swivelled his chair round with deliberate casualness, turning to Nancy Lake a stern and businesslike profile. ‘You didn’t see her leave Bury Cottage or return to it later?’

‘No, I went to Myringham. I was in Myringham the whole afternoon and part of the evening.’

For the first time there was something guarded and secretive in her reply, but he made no comment. ‘Tell me about Angela Hathall. What sort of person was she?’

‘Brusque, tough, ungracious.’ She shrugged, as if such failings in a woman were beyond her comprehension. ‘Perhaps that’s why she and Robert got on so well together.’

‘Did they? They were a happy couple?’

‘Oh, very. They had no eyes for anyone else, as the saying is.’ Nancy Lake gave a light laugh. ‘All in all to each other, you know. They had no friends, as far as I could tell.’

‘I’ve been given the impression she was shy and nervous.’

‘Have you now? I wouldn’t say that. I got the idea she was on her own so much because she liked it that way. Of course, they’d been very badly off till he got this new job. She told me they only had fifteen pounds a week to live on after all his outgoings. He was paying alimony or whatever it’s called to his first wife.’ She paused and smiled. ‘People make such messes of their lives, don’t they?’

There was a hint of ruefulness in her voice as if she had experience of such messes. He turned round again, for a thought had struck him. ‘May I see your right hand, Mrs Lake?’

She gave it to him without question, not laying it on the table but placing it palm-downwards in his. It was almost a lover-like gesture and one that has become typical of the beginning of a relationship between a man and a woman, this covering of hand by hand, a first approach, a show of comfort and trust. Wexford felt its warmth, observed how smooth and tended it was, noted the soft sheen of the nails and the diamond ring which encircled the middle finger. Bemused, he let it rest there a fraction too long.

‘If anyone had told me,’ she said, her eyes dancing, ‘that I should be holding hands with a policeman this morning, I shouldn’t have believed them.’

Wexford said stiffly, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and turned her hand over. No L-shaped scar marred the smooth surface of the tip of her forefinger, and he let the hand drop.

‘Is that how you check fingerprints? Goodness, I always thought it was a much more complicated process.’

‘It is.’ He didn’t explain. ‘Did Angela Hathall have a woman in to help with the cleaning?’

‘Not as far as I know. They couldn’t have afforded it.’ She was doing her best to conceal her delight at his discomfiture, but he saw her lips twitch and delight won. ‘Can I be of any further service to you, Mr Wexford? You wouldn’t care to make casts of my footprints, for instance, or take a blood sample?’

‘No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. But I may want to talk to you again, Mrs Lake.’

‘I do hope you will.’ She got up gracefully and took a few steps towards the window. Wexford, who was obliged to rise when she did, found himself standing close beside her. She had manoeuvred this, he knew she had, but he could only feel flattered. How many years was it since a woman had flirted with him, had wanted to be with him and enjoyed the touch of his hand? Dora had done so, of course, his wife had done so … As he was drawing himself up, conscious of his new firm figure, he remembered his wife. He remembered that he was not only a policeman but a husband who must be mindful of his marriage vows. But Nancy Lake had laid her hand lightly on his arm, was drawing his attention to the sunshine outside, the cars in the High Street that had begun their long progress to the coast.

‘Just the weather for a day by the sea, isn’t it?’ she said. The remark sounded wistful, like an invitation. ‘What a shame you have to work on a Saturday.’ What a shame work and convention and prudence prevented him from leading this woman to his car, driving her to some quiet hotel. Champagne and roses, he thought, and that hand once more reaching across a table to lie warmly in his … ‘And the winter will soon be here,’ she said.

Surely she couldn’t have meant it, couldn’t have intended that double meaning? That the winter would soon be there for both of them, the flesh falling, the blood growing cold … ‘I mustn’t keep you,’ he said, his voice as icy as that coming winter.

She laughed, not at all offended, but she took her hand from his arm and walked towards the door. ‘You might at least say it was good of me to come.’

‘It was. Very public-spirited. Good morning, Mrs Lake.’

‘Good morning, Mr Wexford. You must come to tea quite soon and I’ll give you some miracle jam.’

He sent for someone to see her out. Instead of sitting down once more behind his desk, he returned to the window and looked down. And there she was, crossing the courtyard with the assurance of youth, as if the world belonged to her. It didn’t occur to him that she would look back and up but she did, suddenly, as if his thoughts had communicated themselves to her and called that swift glance. She waved. Her arm went up straight and she waved her hand. They might have known each other all their lives, so warm and free and intimate was that gesture, having separated after a delightful assignation that was no less sweet because it was customary. He raised his own arm in something like a salute, and then, when she had disappeared among the crowd of Saturday shoppers, he too went down to find Burden and take him off for lunch.

The Carousel Café, opposite the police station, was always crowded at Saturday lunchtime, but at least the juke box was silent. The real noise would start when the kids came in at six. Burden was sitting at the corner table they kept permanently reserved, and when Wexford approached, the proprietor, a meek Italian, came up to him deferentially and with considerable respect.

‘My special today for you, Chief Inspector. The liver and bacon I can recommend.’

‘All right, Antonio, but none of your reconstituted potato, eh? And no monosodium glutamate.’

Antonio looked puzzled. ‘This is not on my menu, Mr Wexford.’

‘No, but it’s there all right, the secret agent, the alimentary fifth column. I trust you’ve had no more speedy goings-on of late?’

‘Thanks to you, sir, we have not.’

The reference was to an act of mischief performed a couple of weeks before by one of Antonio’s youthful part-time employees. Bored by the sobriety of the clientele, this boy had introduced into the glass tank of orange juice with its floating plastic oranges, one hundred amphetamine tablets, and the result had been a merry near-riot, a hitherto decorous businessman actually dancing on a table top. Wexford, chancing to call in and, on account of his diet, sampling the orange juice himself, had located the source of this almost Saturnalian jollity and, simultaneously, the joker. Recalling all this now, he laughed heartily.

‘What’s so funny?’ said Burden sourly. ‘Or has that Mrs Lake been cheering you up?’ When Wexford stopped laughing but didn’t answer, he said, ‘Martin’s taken a room in the church hall, a sort of enquiry post and general information pool. The public are being notified in the hope that anyone who may have seen Angela on Friday afternoon will come in and tell us about it. And if she didn’t go out, there’s a possibility her visitor was seen.’

‘She went out,’ said Wexford. ‘She told Mrs Lake she was going out in the car. I wonder who the lady with the L-shaped scar is, Mike. Not Mrs Lake, and Mrs Lake says Angela didn’t have a cleaner or, come to that, any friends.’

‘And who’s the man who fingers the inside of cupboard doors?’

The arrival of the liver and bacon and Burden’s spaghetti Bolognese silenced them for a few minutes. Wexford drank his orange juice, wistfully thinking how much he would enjoy it if this tankful had been ‘speeded’ up and Burden were suddenly to become merry and uninhibited. But the inspector, eating fastidiously, wore the resigned look of one who has sacrificed his weekend to duty. Deep lines, stretching from nostrils to the corners of his mouth, intensified as he said:

‘I was going to take my kids to the seaside.’

Wexford thought of Nancy Lake who would look well in a swimsuit, but he switched off the picture before it developed into a full-colour three-dimensional image. ‘Mike, at this stage of a case we usually ask each other if we’ve noticed anything odd, any discrepancies or downright untruths. Have you noticed anything?’

‘Can’t say I have, except the lack of prints.’

‘She’d spring-cleaned the place to impress the old woman, though I agree it was strange she seems to have wiped everything again before going off on her car jaunt. Mrs Lake had coffee with her at about one, but Mrs Lake’s prints aren’t anywhere. But there’s something else that strikes me as even odder than that, the way Hathall behaved when he got into the house last night.’

Burden pushed away his empty plate, contemplated the menu, and rejecting the idea of a sweet, signalled to Antonio for coffee. ‘Was it odd?’ he said.

‘Hathall and his wife had been married for three years. During that time the old woman had only met her daughter-in-law once, and there had evidently been considerable antagonism between them. This appears to have been something to do with Angela’s having broken up Hathall’s first marriage. Be that as it may—and I mean to learn more about it—Angela and her mother-in-law seem to have been at loggerheads. Yet there was a kind of rapprochement, the old woman had been persuaded to come for the weekend and Angela was preparing to receive her to the extent of titivating the place far beyond her normal standard. Now Angela was supposed to be meeting them at the station, but she didn’t turn up. Hathall says she was shy and nervous, Mrs Lake that she was brusque and ungracious. Bearing this in mind, what conclusions would you expect Hathall to have drawn when his wife wasn’t at the station?’

‘That she’d got cold feet. That she was too frightened to face her mother-in-law.’

‘Exactly. But what happened when he got to Bury Cottage? He couldn’t find Angela. He looked for her downstairs and in the garden. He never went upstairs at all And yet by then he must have suspected Angela’s nervousness and concluded surely that a nervous woman takes refuge not in the garden but in her own bedroom. But instead of looking upstairs for her, he sent his mother, the very person he must have believed Angela to be frightened of. This shy and nervous girl to whom he is alleged to be devoted was cowering—he must have thought—in her bedroom, but instead of going up to reassure her and then bring her to confront his mother with him there to support her, he goes off to the garage. That, Mike, is very odd indeed.’

Burden nodded. ‘Drink your coffee,’ he said. ‘You said Hathall was coming in at three. Maybe he’ll give you an answer.’