Close Her Eyes Page 5

  ‘Mrs Pritchard?’ said Thanet.

  She glanced at her husband as if for permission to speak. But he did not look at her and she sighed, bowed her head.

  ‘You were about to say something?’ Thanet persisted.

  ‘Leave my wife alone, Inspector.’ Pritchard’s voice was heavy with despair. ‘She knows no more than I do. Hasn’t she suffered enough?’

  ‘Mr Pritchard,’ said Thanet gently, ‘I know that she is suffering, that you are both suffering, but don’t you see that if Charity’s … if the person who is responsible for Charity’s death is to be found, I really do need your help.’

  ‘What’s the point? It won’t bring her back. Nothing will bring her back …’ Pritchard’s eyes filled suddenly with tears and he dashed them angrily away, jumped up and crossed to stand with his back to them at the curtained window.

  Thanet was filled with compassion. But pity, emotional involvement, were luxuries he could not afford. He needed this man’s co-operation, had to have it if he was to get anywhere. He gave Pritchard a moment or two to recover and then said harshly, ‘Are you suggesting, then, that we should do nothing? Allow this man to go free? Perhaps to kill someone else’s daughter?’

  Mrs Pritchard gave an inarticulate little moan of distress and pressed the knuckles of one hand hard against her mouth as if to prevent any more sounds escaping, and Pritchard swung around to face them. Thanet’s severity had had the desired effect and jolted him out of his state of inertia. The black eyes were glittering with anger as he returned to the settee and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  ‘What sort of a man are you?’ he said in a low, furious voice. ‘Can’t you see—?’

  ‘No, Nathaniel.’ Mrs Pritchard suddenly straightened her shoulders and sat up, laid a placatory hand on her husband’s sleeve. ‘The Inspector’s right, don’t you see? We must help him. It would be dreadful if … I couldn’t bear it if … It’s our duty to do all we can to make sure this man is caught.’

  His wife’s unexpected revolt had obviously taken Pritchard by surprise. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open slightly. For a long moment he stared at her, searchingly. Then, slowly, he nodded. ‘Very well. I suppose you’re right.’

  With Pritchard’s capitulation the tension in the room slackened and Thanet heaved an inward sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. I’ll try to be brief.’

  As Thanet had already noted, Charity had been a pupil at Sturrenden Girls’ Technical School. Her parents had never received any complaints about either work or behaviour and her end of term reports had always been satisfactory. The one subject in which she excelled had been music.

  ‘She passed all her grades with distinction.’ Mrs Pritchard put in shyly. It was the first time she had volunteered any information.

  ‘That’s her music on the piano?’ Thanet rose and crossed to glance at it, sensing that Mrs Pritchard might respond to an interest shown in Charity’s special gift.

  ‘Yes. She was going to take her Grade Seven at the end of this term.’ Mrs Pritchard’s mouth began to go out of control and she bit her lower lip, hard.

  ‘God gave her a great talent, Inspector,’ said Pritchard. ‘And she used it in His service. She used to play the organ for us at Sunday Service.’

  ‘Which day was her music lesson, Mrs Pritchard?’

  ‘On Tuesdays, after school’

  So he had been right about the Tuesday entries in the diary. Small consolation, really, for the diary had yielded nothing else of interest. He had spent some time examining it last night, to no avail. ‘And was that the only day of the week she used to stay behind after school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she travelled?’

  ‘By bicycle.’

  ‘With anyone?’

  They both shook their heads. ‘No one else from around here goes to the Girls’ Tech,’ said Pritchard.

  ‘Could you tell me a little about out-of-school hours? What did Charity do in her spare time?’

  Pritchard frowned. ‘She didn’t have any “spare time”, as you put it. The Devil always finds work for idle hands, Inspector, and Charity was brought up to use her time properly.’

  ‘Could you tell me what you mean by “properly”? What did she do in the evenings, for example?’

  ‘Do her homework. Help her mother in the house. Practise the piano.’

  ‘She always practised for at least an hour, every day, Inspector, sometimes more,’ put in Mrs Pritchard.

  ‘And she never went out in the evenings?’

  ‘Only to Bible class on Fridays,’ said Pritchard.

  ‘And where was that held?’

  ‘At our meeting house, in Jubilee Road.’

  ‘Did she go alone?’

  ‘In summer, yes. In winter I used to take her. And my brother, her uncle, used to walk home with her.’

  ‘He is a member of your sect?’

  ‘Of course. My family has always belonged, as far back as we can remember.’

  ‘Does he work locally?’

  ‘He’s caretaker at Holly Road Primary School.’

  ‘And he attends this Bible Class, presumably?’

  ‘He is the leader. The group is for our younger members. It is essential these days to ensure that young people receive the correct spiritual food. There is so much evil in the world, so much temptation …’

  Pritchard was getting that fanatical light in his eyes again. Quickly, Thanet interrupted him. ‘And Saturdays? What did she do on Saturdays?’

  Pritchard gave a brief, angry parody of a laugh. ‘Well may you ask. She usually spent it with that girl.’

  ‘Veronica?’

  ‘Yes. And look where it got her!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s obvious, surely. If she hadn’t been friendly with that girl she wouldn’t have been going to Dorset, she would have been safe with us in Birmingham, and none of this would ever have happened.’

  ‘You can’t blame Veronica, though, Nathaniel,’ said Mrs Pritchard timidly. ‘What happened to Charity … Veronica had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Nothing to do with it! Nothing to do with it!’ His solicitude for his wife apparently forgotten, Pritchard had turned on her with eyes blazing. ‘How can you possibly say that? How can you be so blind. I told you, didn’t I? I warned you. I said that girl would be a bad influence on Charity and I was right!’

  ‘What do you mean, bad influence?’ said Thanet.

  ‘In every way! You’ve only got to look at the girl to see what I mean, with her painted face and skirts halfway up her thighs. Disgusting, that’s what she is, disgusting!’

  ‘Are you suggesting, then that she …’ Thanet didn’t know how to put it tactfully. There was no way of putting it tactfully. ‘… that she contaminated Charity?’

  Pritchard’s face seemed to swell and a tide of bright colour ran up his neck and into his cheeks. ‘How dare you! How dare you come into my home at a time like this and make insinuations about my daughter! What right have you got, to …’

  ‘I made no insinuations, Mr Pritchard. You said that Veronica had had a bad influence on Charity, I was merely trying to clarify what you meant.’

  ‘You implied …’

  ‘I implied nothing. I repeat, I was simply seeking to clarify what you were saying, that’s all. Now look, Mr Pritchard, all I’m trying to do is understand what Charity was like. You, as her parents, are best qualified to help me. I know that this must be very hard for you, but please, try to understand that I have no interest in drawing false conclusions. I merely want the truth.’

  ‘You were twisting my words. You were implying …’

  ‘I repeat, I was implying—am implying—nothing. Simply asking for information.’

  But it was no good. Pritchard would not be pacified and, cursing himself for his tactless choice of words and, perhaps, for insensitivity for broaching such a predictably sensitive area so soon, Thanet decided to give up for the moment.
/>   Mrs Pritchard accompanied them to the door.

  ‘Inspector,’ she whispered as she let them out, glancing back over her shoulder at the sitting room door. ‘If I can help, in any way …’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘You will ask, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Thanet touched her shoulder and smiled encouragement at her. ‘I promise.’

  She hesitated and Thanet sensed her reluctance to return to her husband. And who could blame her? he thought as he turned away. And yet … it took collusion, to establish that kind of relationship. Pritchard’s domination could not have been achieved without aquiescence on the part of his wife. Did she enjoy playing the submissive role, Thanet wondered, or had she, over the years, adopted it for the sake of peace?

  ‘Difficult customer,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Pritchard? They don’t come much more prickly, that’s for sure. And I had to put my foot in it, of course.’

  ‘Bound to happen sooner or later, with someone like him. Anyway, it was obvious we weren’t going to get anywhere. I shouldn’t have thought they’ve have had much more to tell us.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Thanet paused to extract pipe and matches from his pocket.

  ‘So, what now, sir?’

  ‘Time for you to improve your mind, I think. Do a bit of research.’ Thanet grinned as he saw Lineham’s expression. ‘Come on, Mike, you know you quite enjoy ferreting for facts, once you get down to it.’

  ‘So what do I have to do?’

  ‘Go down to the library, see if you can dig anything up on the Children of Jerusalem. They’ve been around quite a long time, as I told you, so you should be able to glean something.’

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘A word with Pritchard’s brother, I think. Then with Veronica. I’ll see you in the Hay Wain, around one, and we’ll swop notes. You can take the car, I won’t need it.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Thanet watched him drive off, then allowed himself an indulgent smile. Naturally Lineham would have preferred to accompany him; interviews were much more interesting than dusty archives. Nevertheless, he had a feeling that this particular piece of research could be important. Lineham would have to put up with the disappointment as best he could.

  Thanet turned and walked briskly up the street towards the entrance to the footpath. A quick check, first, on whether a daylight search had turned up anything interesting, then he’d visit Jethro Pritchard.

  He was rather looking forward to that.

  6

  The search was still going on, but as yet nothing of interest had turned up. Thanet stopped for a word here and there and then walked on, past the spot where Charity’s body had lain. According to Pritchard there was a footpath which linked Gate Street, where his brother lived, with this one. He found the entrance to it on the right about a hundred yards further on, just beyond the bend around which Lineham and Pritchard had come into view last night. It ran between the side walls of two blocks of gardens and was only about seventy-five yards long. If he had come this way, Charity’s assailant could have been well away in a matter of minutes.

  The front door of number 14 was flung open with such force that it rebounded from the wall. Square in the opening stood a formidable woman; legs planted apart and arms akimbo she reminded Thanet of a picture of the Genie from Aladdin’s lamp in one of Bridget’s books of fairytales.

  Her expression, however, was anything but benevolent.

  ‘Mrs Pritchard?’

  ‘We are sick and tired of being pestered like this. Persecution, that’s what it is, persecution.’

  ‘My name is …’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got to say, I don’t want to hear it. Go away, or we’ll call the police.’

  Thanet fished in his pocket.

  She was still in full flood. ‘I meant what I said. Scavengers, that’s what you are, scavengers. We haven’t had a minute’s peace since daybreak. And there’s no point in waving that thing in my face. Press cards don’t cut no ice with me. I said, if you don’t go away I’ll call the …’

  ‘POLICE,’ said Thanet, holding his warrant card up in front of her nose. And then, more quietly, ‘I am the police.’

  She snatched the card from him, held it away to peer at it long-sightedly, then sniffed, her mouth twitching sideways.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ She held the card up, comparing photograph and original. ‘Why aren’t you wearing uniform, then?’

  For a moment Thanet could not believe that she was serious. Was it possible that anyone these days could be unaware of the existence of plain-clothes policemen? But of course, the Jethro Pritchards were also of the Children. Perhaps, if one never watched television or even, for all he knew, read a newspaper or listened to the radio, it was just conceivable …

  ‘I’m from the CID—the Criminal Investigation Department. We all wear plain clothes.’

  She pushed his warrant card at him and reluctantly stepped back.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

  She lingered to scowl up and down the street before closing the door behind them.

  ‘In here.’ She opened the door of the front room.

  Here was the same drabness, the same musty, unused odour that had characterised the sitting room of the house in Town Road. Thanet was surprised to see that there were two people in it, a middle-aged man and an old woman, and that despite the heat of the day there was a small fire burning in the hearth; in his experience such rooms were kept exclusively for occasional visitors.

  The man had risen.

  ‘My husband,’ said Mrs Pritchard ungraciously. ‘And my mother-in-law.’

  Then Thanet understood. The three of them were wearing black. This was the official face of mourning.

  What had they been doing before he arrived? he wondered. Presumably, at such a time it was considered unseemly to go about one’s daily business as if nothing had happened. Yet there was no reading matter lying about, no radio, no sewing or knitting … And looking at this ill-assorted trio he simply couldn’t visualise them engaged in amiable conversation.

  Jethro Pritchard was a small, stooping, sepia version of his brother. They shared the same bony facial structure, but Jethro’s hair was brown and thinning, carefully combed in separated strands across his baldness, his manner timid and placatory. After shaking his clammy hand Thanet had consciously to restrain himself from wiping his palm on his trouser leg.

  The old lady was sitting close to the fire, her legs swathed in a rug, her shoulders draped in a black, knitted shawl. She did not acknowledge Thanet’s greeting, but simply went on gazing at him with faded, rheumy eyes in which there was no flicker of acknowledgement or response.

  ‘You’d better sit down, I suppose.’ But Mrs Pritchard remained standing, arms folded. This interview, her posture indicated, was going to be very brief.

  Thanet had no intention of being browbeaten and he sat back as comfortably as possible in his armchair’s inhospitable embrace and prepared for battle. An imp of mischief urged him to take out his pipe and relight it, but he resisted temptation. No point in arousing unnecessary antagonism, there was enough here already.

  But why? That was the interesting question.

  Mrs Pritchard was still glowering at him. ‘I can’t think why you need to bother us again anyway. We’ve been through it all once already.’

  ‘Were you fond of your niece, Mrs Pritchard?’

  The unexpectedness of the question caught her off-balance. She hesitated and, before she could suppress it, some fierce emotion glittered in her eyes. She blinked and it was gone.

  ‘Well … of course.’

  But her initial response had betrayed her. She had disliked Charity, had felt positive hostility towards her. Now why was that? Thanet wondered.

  ‘Then you will naturally wish to co-operate with the police to the fullest possible extent,’ he said blandly.

  She stared at him for a moment longer, then crossed to sit beside her husband. ‘We’re all ve
ry upset this morning.’

  Thanet recognised self-justification when he heard it. Still, he pretended to take it at face value.

  ‘Understandably,’ he said.

  Jethro Pritchard made a small, choking sound in his throat. His hands were tightly clasped in his lap, his lips clamped together as if he were afraid of what would emerge if he opened them. A thick, worm-like vein across his temple pulsated in a rapid, regular rhythm. He caught Thanet’s eye.

  ‘She was like a daughter to us,’ he said.

  Old Mrs Pritchard suddenly stirred. ‘Jethro, what’s that man doing here?’ Her voice was shrill, querulous.

  Jethro looked at his wife as if for guidance and licked his lips. ‘He’s from the police, mother. Charity’s had an … accident.’

  The old woman stared at her son without comprehension.

  ‘You remember Charity, mother? Nathaniel’s girl?’

  ‘I don’t like it in here,’ she said. ‘I want to go back in the kitchen.’

  Jethro glanced at his wife, who nodded.

  ‘I want to go back in the kitchen,’ repeated old Mrs Pritchard. ‘I don’t like it in here.’

  ‘Would you mind, Inspector?’ said Jethro, half-rising. ‘I’m afraid once she gets an idea in her head …’

  ‘Carry on, by all means.’

  ‘Come along then, mother. I’ll take you back. Up we come …’

  It took several minutes for Jethro to lever his mother out of her chair, manoeuvre her out of the room and get her settled in the kitchen, all the while keeping up a flow of solicitous encouragement.

  ‘All right then, mother?’ Thanet finally heard him say, and a moment later he returned. It was at once apparent that the old lady’s dependence had somehow given him strength. He was moving briskly and his facial muscles had relaxed.

  Damn, thought Thanet.

  ‘We are particularly interested in tracing Charity’s movements last night and over the weekend,’ he said, when Jethro was settled again.

  ‘Over the weekend?’ Mrs Pritchard’s eyes stretched wide. ‘But we know where she was over the weekend.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’