CHAPTER FIVE
“What
the devil’s the matter with you this evening Carol? You’ve been like a she-bear
with a sore head all evening!”
*If
you don’t like it, piss off!”
“If
you fill that glass any higher you’ll be wasting a good whiskey on the carpet,”
Winter observed acidly.
“An
improvement on dog pee, wouldn’t you say?” was the swift retort.
Winter
had the grace to blush. “Bonsai or no bonsai, a tree is a tree,” he pointed
out. “How was Stanley to know?” He had
meant to take the little dog to the police station earlier but there simply
hadn’t been time; it had now been banished to Carol’s kitchen.
“Why
are you here anyway? What are you after, Freddy?”
“Must
a friend have an ulterior motive for looking in on another friend?” Winter
growled, spreading his large hands in a gesture of mock despair.
“Not
at all.” She took another swig from the glass. “But you do, don’t you? I know
you, Freddy Winter. So let’s not tiptoe around the bloody mulberry bush, okay?
What, exactly, Freddy darling, do you want?”
Winter
winced involuntarily. He hated it when Carol swore. But she’d always had a
split personality of sorts. Sober, she was a warm, sensual, intelligent person.
After a few drinks, she could easily be mistaken for a common fishwife. “I need
to know more about Max Cutler,” he began, “so I thought I’d pay his mother a
visit and suss out the family home, so to speak.”
“Ah!”
She crossed the room and leaned close, the distinctive smell of whiskey on her
breath causing him to grimace. “And you want me to come and hold your hand, is
that it? Well, this time you’re the one barking up the wrong tree, Freddy
darling. There is no person on God’s earth I would rather avoid than Annie
Cutler. I’ve done my bit by her, and enough is enough. Do we understand each
other?”
Winter
nodded and sighed. Winning Carol over to this particular purpose was going to
take longer than he’d anticipated. She flung him a crooked smile and moved
away. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Now, suppose you tell me what’s
eating you?”
Carol
hesitated. “It’s Liam. Well, it’s Sadie really.” A brief fit of hiccups took
over and she sat down.
“They’re
not splitting up?” Winter was genuinely alarmed. He was very fond of Carol’s
son and his partner.
“If
you must know…” She paused again while the hiccups subsided. “I’m going to be a
grandmother.” Winter threw back his head and roared with laughter until his
eyes filled with tears. “It’s no laughing matter, Freddy. I’m only fifty-three
for heaven’s sake. I’m far too young to be a grandma.”
“Think
of all those glamorous granny competitions you’ll be able to enter...and win,
of course,” he added hastily. “When’s the happy event?”
“Apparently,
the sprog is due on Christmas Day. Christmas Day, I ask you, what kind of a
Christmas is it going to be?”
“Certainly
not a dull one,” Winter observed with a wicked chuckle, “Shall we toast the
happy couple? I take it, they are happy about the baby?”
“They’re
over the bloody moon. Liam was so excited on the phone, I wouldn’t be surprised
if he wet himself.”
“And
Sadie, how does she feel about being a mum?”
“She’s
thrilled, although…” Winter raised an eyebrow. “She’s a lot older than him of
course. Oh, she admits to forty, but I do wonder about that.”
“A
lot of older women have perfectly healthy babies these days,” he felt almost
obliged to say.
“True,”
Carol conceded, and took a sip rather than a swig this time of her guest’s
favourite malt.
“Is
that what all this is about?” he asked gently, “You’re scared something might
go wrong?”
“It
can happen,” she said quietly, “as you well know,” she added, but was careful
to avoid his steady gaze and immediately wished she had kept her mouth
shut. Helen Winter and Freddy had tried
for years to have children, her last miscarriage resulting in a hysterectomy.
Winter rose abruptly. “Where are you going? You’re not leaving already?”
Winter
hid a smile. Now, at least, she wanted him to stay. He’d achieve the purpose of
his visit yet. “I’m going to make us some coffee…black and strong,” he added
with feeling. Her indirect reference to Helen had disturbed him more than he
cared to admit and left him feeling light-headed. He often thought fondly of
Helen, of course he did, but they’d had more than their fair share of heartache
and it was that, rather than the good times, which always came back to
haunt him.
He
had momentarily forgotten about Stanley and was unprepared for the white bundle
that leapt into his arms the split second he stepped into the kitchen, almost
causing him to lose his footing. Recovering his balance quickly enough, he took
the oddest comfort from a wet tongue licking his face, claws digging into his
shirt and the furiously wagging tail. “You’re in disgrace,” he reminded the
wide-eyed mutt sternly, but was reluctant for some obscure reason to deposit it
on the floor. Instead, he tucked it under one arm with strict orders to behave.
The dog seemed to know what was expected of him and quietened instantly.
Winter
set about making the coffee. When it came to placing two mugs and a sugar bowl
on a tray, though, he had to admit defeat and put the dog down on the floor,
forgetting he’d left the door ajar. Stanley disappeared in a flash.
Winter
returned to the sitting room, pondering anxiously on the fate of Carol’s bonsai
trees. He needn’t have worried and was greeted by the sight of a very subdued
Stanley comfortably ensconced on her lap, tail merely twitching, brown eyes
fixed on Winter with a decidedly smug expression as if to say, You’re not
the only one who can get round her you know.
Ah, but I haven’t…yet, Winter’s expression
reminded the dog although a discerning eye would have detected a growing
confidence that it was only a matter of time before he succeeded.
…………………………………………
“If
you don’t have any information, Mr Winter, I can’t imagine why you’re here,”
said Annie Cutler.
“Freddy’s
doing his best,” murmured Carol, wondering how on earth she had let herself be
persuaded to accompany him.
“I’m
sure he is, but it’s a result I want. I need to know what that awful woman has
done with my son.”
“It’s
not unusual for people to disappear after a quarrel with loved ones, Mrs
Cutler…” Winter began.
“If
your implying my son is in love with that whore, you obviously haven’t met the
woman. I can assure you, my Maxwell has better taste than to give his heart to
the likes of that sort. They’re all the same these TV people. They think
they’re God’s gift…”
“Actually,
I have met Nina Fox,” said Winter, keeping his tone deceptively mild, “and I
have to say I rather liked her.” Both Annie and Carol visibly winced. “But we
do need to find your son, I agree,” he went on, pretending he hadn’t noticed,
“and it would help if I could get a clearer picture of him in my mind.”
“You’re
welcome to any photographs, of course,” Annie Cutler obliged between thick, dry
lips that seemed to Winter as if they were glued on the fleshy face rather than
forming a part of it.
“I’m
not so much interested in his looks as his personality,” Winter explained. “I’d
like to take a look in his bedroom, if I may?”
Annie
Cutler looked disapproving. The squat shoulders heaved, all but swallowing up
the short neck.
“It
can’t do any harm, Annie, and it if will help…” Carol tried to sound positive
and reassuring, but the attempt didn’t quite ring true even to her own ears. She
could not help thinking how Annie Cutler was much as she imagined Toad in the
famous children’s tale,. Only, there was something irresistibly likeable about
Toad and she saw none of that in the woman now glaring at Freddy and herself.
“I
suppose so,” Annie Cutler conceded. “I’ll show you his room then if you insist.
Not that he spends much time with his mother these days…” she murmured. A
flicker of sadness in the hard eyes gave Winter cause to have second thoughts
about the woman. She’s lonely, he
mused, and God knows, I know all about
that.” He started, violently. Home truths were not his forte. “If you’ll
just tell me which room, Mrs Cutler, I’d prefer to look around on my own,” he
said more brusquely than he intended.
The
gargoyle face puffed and reddened with indignation. Carol cut in quickly, “I
suppose there’s no chance of a cup of tea, is there Annie? I’m parched. Let’s
go in the kitchen and have a chinwag while Freddy struts and frets his hour
upon the stage and all that…”
The
reference to Shakespeare meant nothing to Annie Cutler except to flummox her,
sensing as she did that it should. “Oh well, I suppose so,” she agreed in a
clipped voice, sharper than the nail scissors Carol always carried in her
handbag. “It’s upstairs, the first room
on the right,” she told Winter. “It’s much as he left it, although I’ve tidied
up just a little. Max is very possessive about his things. He hates me to touch
so much as a shirt left lying around. But one has to keep up appearances,
doesn’t one?”
Winter
responded with a gruff nod and headed for the stairs, anxious to escape the
claustrophobic atmosphere of the room made worse by the formidable presence of
both women.
The
bedroom had been more than just tidied. It was immaculate to the extent of
being almost clinical. Certainly, it lacked any sense of its erstwhile
occupant’s personality.
Winter’s
attention was first drawn to two framed photographs on a highly polished chest
of drawers. The first was of a handsome
young man wearing a mortar and gown whom Winter took to be Max Cutler. The
second showed the same young man with another, arms around each other’s
shoulders and smiling broadly. Both were dressed for a graduation ceremony.
Winter
studied the second photograph thoughtfully. Carol had said her son Liam knew
Cutler at university. There was every chance then that Liam would have known
the friend. Replacing it on the polished
mahogany surface, Winter glanced around for a photograph of the awful mother.
But there were no others apart from that pair on the dressing table. Why did he
think of them as a pair, he wondered absently? He picked up a black comb lying
on the dressing table and pocketed it.
He
continued to search with expert but discreet thoroughness, opening each drawer
of the dressing table in turn and taking care to leave no sign the contents had
been disturbed. They revealed nothing of the any significance, nor did a
bookcase under the window or a bedside cupboard.
Winter
frowned. There wasn’t the remotest lived-in feel about this room. Only the bed,
flowery duvet and pillows slightly disturbed, suggested that anyone had ever
used the room or might be expected to again. Intuitively, he felt under the
mattress. It was routine. He wasn’t expecting to find anything, nor did he. He
walked to the window again, observed that the garden was in a far superior
condition to his own and would have left the room if a piece of paper, fallen
behind some books on the top shelf, hadn’t caught his eye.
Curiosity
aroused, he carefully withdrew a sheet of paper that could easily have been
torn from a child’s exercise book. On one side, an extraordinary painting leapt
up at him and caused him to catch his breath. For all its roughness and lack of
perspective, it bore a striking resemblance to the painting that had caught his
attention at Nina Fox’s apartment. Blotches of reds, yellows and orange could
well have been berries on a shrub or bush; a blob caught up in it all might or
might not have been a bird but its expression of terror was almost identical to
that in the other painting. Or perhaps he was reading something into the
painting that simply wasn’t there? At
first glance, it was a mess, nothing more or less than the result of a child’s
playtime. You can’t read into anything something
that isn’t there… Or can you? He pondered the question idly for several
minutes before shaking his head despairingly and finally letting go of it.
Still
clutching the sheet of paper, he went downstairs. By now he was ready for a cup
of tea, having never understood why he preferred tea with milk, no sugar,
during the daytime and sweet black coffee in the evenings.
“Those
photographs on the dressing table, I take it the young man in mortar and gown
is your son?”
“Yes,”
Annie Cutlet confirmed, albeit a trifle tersely.
“And
who is his friend in the other photo?”
“Why,
that’s poor Ray, Ray Bannister. Ironic isn’t it? They were friends long before
Nina Fox came on the scene, long before she took up with Nathan Sparrow if it
comes to that. She once lived in the flat below his, you know…Ray’s, that is.”
“Is
that how Max got to know her?”
“I
imagine so.”
“Do
you know anything about this?” Winter showed her the painting.
“Oh,
that would be one of Billy’s, Billy Pike. It’s a small world. There was a time
when the Bannisters lived next door to the Pikes. On the other side of the
Pikes, were the Sparrows.”
“Nathan
Sparrow?” Carol couldn’t contain her surprise.
“The
very same,” Annie Cutler confirmed and continued, “Billy could only have been
about eight or nine at the time of the fire.” She paused. “You know about the
fire at the Sparrows’ house?” Winter nodded. “Yes, of course. Well, Billy and
young Ben Sparrow were about the same age. Billy was never the same after poor
Ben and his mother died. No one quite
knows what to make of him. He’s intelligent and apparently communicates well
when it suits him, but he hasn’t spoken a single word since that night. Ray
used to spend time with the boy. Max, too, later on. Max used to call them the
three musketeers. It was all very
childish if you ask me. Touching, I suppose, but childish.”
“And
the painting…?” Winter prompted.
“Oh, that.
Billy paints all the time. I can’t imagine why Max kept it. I mean, look
at it. A chimpanzee could do better.”
“May I borrow it?”
“You can keep it and welcome. I hate it. It’s not just the
painting, you understand, but its associations. When I think of Billy, I think
of poor Ray. I think of Ray, and of course I think of how he died…another of
Nina Fox’s victims. Oh, Nathan Sparrow may have stuck the knife in, but mark my
words, that little whore’s to blame. She’s the guilty one, just like she’s
responsible for whatever’s happened to my Max.” But she did not get tearful on
this occasion, merely sat, fuming, in yet another armchair set to gobble her
up. “You mustn’t let her win, Mr Winter. I’ll pay whatever it takes, but you
must not let her win. She’s taken Max away from me once already. I’ll not let
her do it a second time. He’s my son, Mr Winter, not her plaything, to do with
as she pleases. I mean it, Mr Winter,
money is no object, just …FIND MY SON.”
Winter recoiled slightly, half-expecting her to start
breathing fire. He remembered the comb and retrieved it from his pocket. “May I
borrow this too?”
“Of course you may. I presume you’ll want to take a DNA
sample? But be sure to return it. I feel...well…closer to Max whenever I touch
his things. Oh, I know they all say I’m a daft cow who’s too besotted with her
son for his own good. But I don’t care. I love my Max, Mr Winter. Besides, they
don’t know the half of it.”
So what’s the other
half? Winter wanted to ask, but a warning look from Carol made him think
again.
“We really should be going, Annie. Freddy will be in touch,
though, won’t you Freddy?” Carol was already getting to her feet.
“Of course,” Winter agreed and treated the roly-poly woman
to a smile that was meant to be reassuring.
Annie Cutler only
glared. “Be sure you do,” she snapped. “You can see yourselves out, I’m sure.”
They left her, all but swallowed up by red velvet cushions.
‘Burnt-out’ was the description that sprung to the detective’s mind. He was
left in no doubt. Annie Cutler had to be
one of the most pathetic specimens of spent humanity he’d even had the misfortune
to encounter.
“Home, James,” declared Carol breezily, “and just for
putting me through all that you can stop of by some nice little Italian and
treat me.”
“Treat you to a nice little Italian? I will if I can find
one… and that’s not a threat it’s a promise.” Winter chuckled. It was a poor
joke but she relaxed and laughed along with him.
The journey back to Camden Town was a very light-hearted
affair at first, as if both were anxious to purge themselves of Annie Cutler’s
overwhelming awfulness. Later, they settled into a comfortable silence, Stanley
snoring gently on the back seat.
Suddenly, Carol blurted, “You don’t think anything terrible
can have happened to Max Cutler do you Freddy?”
“I haven’t a clue,” he said flatly and she fell quiet again.
It was just as well she did, he mused, preferring not to be caught out in a
white lie. For no logical reason, he was convinced some grave misfortune had
befallen Max Cutler. As for clues, there were far too many of those for his
liking, each pointing in a different direction. It remained to be seen whether
any would lead to Max Cutler. He was certain of one thing, though. This was
going to be a very interesting case, possibly even a dangerous one. A rush of
adrenalin advised him of a sixth sense possessed by every good copper he’d ever
known. And I’m still a bloody good copper
or my name’s not Fred Winter.
Winter would have delighted in pressing his foot down hard
on the accelerator had they not just entered a 30 mph zone. Instead, he settled pensively behind the
wheel, without letting his attention wander for an instant. Why, he asked
himself, had Nina Fox felt the need to tell him a pack of lies? Why, too,
should Ray Bannister persist in figuring at all, let alone prominently, in his
thoughts? The link between them was obvious if only history. He, Fred Winter,
should be focusing on Cutler, though, surely? He sucked in his breath and rested
one hand on the wheel for a moment to scratch his nose before letting out a
long, low whistle between his teeth.
Carol recognized the signs and said nothing, but Stanley
woke, uttered a soft yelp, cocked his head on one side and pricked up both
ears. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he promptly went back to sleep.
To be continued on Monday
