Fell Purpose

‘Meaning . . . what exactly?’

‘Meaning I think she was attracted to other women,’ he said, returning his gaze almost reluctantly to Slider, and surveying his face as if for reaction.

‘You think she was a lesbian?’ This was a new turn.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I don’t know, but I would guess that she was still a virgin. But young people of that age are often puzzled and confused about their sexuality, especially if they’ve had few chances to experiment. Perhaps she was just beginning to feel these feelings – finding women attractive – and worried about being different from other girls. So she joined in the girl talk and the boasting with her friends, to hide her real self from them. But in her drawings she could only be honest. That’s where the real Zellah came out.’

Slider pondered this for a moment. It made sense in its own psychological terms, all right; but he knew Zellah had not been a virgin, so whatever she may or may not have felt about it, she had certainly put her money where her mouth was. But those lyrical drawings of females nudes – was that what they were saying? He had thought the nakedness was in direct line of descent from the naked horses; that the freedom from clothes represented a greater, spiritual freedom – the freedom denied to the caged thrush. Though of course, longing for spiritual freedom and a suppressed attraction to women were not mutually exclusive ideas.

After a moment he asked, ‘Did you think her a happy person, at the bottom?’

Markov looked grave. ‘No, I thought her very unhappy. In fact . . .’ A hesitation. ‘In fact when I first heard she was dead, just for a second it flitted through my mind that she might have committed suicide. But from what the media seem to be saying that wasn’t the case.’ He finished on what was almost a wistful note, as if he hoped that somehow or other Slider could tell him it was suicide after all.

‘I’m afraid it wasn’t suicide,’ Slider said.

Markov sighed. ‘But you’ve caught the man, anyway, haven’t you?’ he went on, more briskly. ‘It was on the news last night. Some ghastly serial killer, who picked on her at random. Dreadful thing – awful. But at least there’s no mystery about it, is there?’

‘No,’ Slider said. ‘There’s no mystery about Ronnie Oates. What we don’t know is what Zellah was doing in that place at that time.’

‘Walking home from the fair, probably. No buses that time of night. Taking a short-cut.’

‘How do you know she was at the fair?’ Slider asked.

He blinked. ‘Well, there’s nothing else around there. And it said on the news report that’s where the murderer – this Oates man – had been. So I just assumed.’ He stared at Slider an instant and then laughed loudly. ‘That wasn’t one of those Columbo questions, was it? “But I never mentioned what the murder weapon was, sir.” Oh dear, you can’t possibly think I did it! What possible reason could I have for wanting to kill poor little Zellah?’

‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ Slider said calmly. ‘It was a simple question, nothing more.’

‘Well, if the next question is, “where was I that night?”’ he went on, still laughing, ‘I was here at home, painting. But I’m afraid as my wife was working I can’t call on her for an alibi. So you’ll just have to take my word for it. I can produce the painting I was doing, if you want to see that.’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ Slider said. He thought the laughter was rather overdone, but the man was down the bottom of the second large glass, and he doubted they had been the first two of the morning. He stood up. ‘By the way, the car outside, parked on the hardstanding – is that yours?’

‘I don’t own a car,’ he said. ‘It’s hardly worth it in London, with the cost of parking and everything. One of the reasons we bought this flat is it’s so handy for both our places of work. My wife can cycle to the hospital from here. She works at St Charles’s. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason in particular. I’m just interested in cars. Well, thank you for giving me your time, and your opinion of Zellah. It was very helpful. One of the hardest things about an investigation like this is that one never gets to meet the victim. And there’s something about Zellah that haunts me, I don’t know why.’

‘She was a sweet kid,’ Markov said seriously. ‘And I must say it’s refreshing to hear you talk like that. One somehow assumes that you policemen all get so hardened to stuff like this that it doesn’t affect you any more.’

‘It affects us,’ Slider said. ‘You learn to cope with it, but you never stop feeling it.’

Atherton was being regaled with tea and biscuits by the Wildings’ next-door neighbour, who was plainly thrilled to bits with the whole affair and couldn’t wait to be asked her opinion. She was a woman in her sixties, thin, with a tight perm. Her face – so wrinkled it looked like a dry river bed – was thick with foundation and powder; she wore crimson lipstick, and the strong lenses of her glasses emphasized that she was wearing not only eye-shadow but mascara. Done up like a Christmas turkey, Atherton thought, in case there was any chance of getting on the telly or in the papers.

But the media pack had mostly dispersed. When he arrived there were only two of them left, a weedy youth with an adenoidal look who was from the East Acton Times – a lowly subsidiary of the Acton Gazette – and a very young, plump girl with a camera whom he didn’t recognize, and took for a freelance. They were beguiling their lonely vigil by chatting to each other, and getting on so well they barely glanced up as Atherton drew up in front of a house two doors down. Mind you, neither did the policeman on duty, who seemed too sunk in lethargy to care about movements outside his own immediate line of sight.

So it was balm to the Barretts’ souls when Atherton introduced himself and asked if he could ask them questions. Or rather to Mrs B’s soul – she practically abducted him into the over-furnished, over-stuffed sitting room, barking out an order to Mr B, neat and over-dressed in suit and tie and highly polished shoes, to fetch the tea. The kettle must have been on the boil and the tray already laid, for it all arrived in double-quick time, after which Mr B subsided in one of the armchairs and sat mute, stroking the black-and-white cat which ambled in from the garden and jumped on to his lap.

Apart from appealing to her husband from time to time for confirmation, which she never waited for, Mrs Barrett ignored him. She had stuff to say and she was going to say it.

‘I never liked them,’ she said, ‘and I never trusted him. Thought himself so superior, that Mr Wilding! Thought himself better than everybody else, that’s the truth of it.’

Atherton got it: the greatest damnation you could offer in this present age. To think yourself better than other people was the sin of sins.

‘I suppose he was educated,’ Mrs Barrett conceded with the deepest reluctance, ‘but so were other people. My husband was an accountant, you know – weren’t you, Gordon? Well, a bookkeeper, which is the same thing. Double entry. Forty years with the Co-op – they’d have been lost without him. They gave him a plaque when he retired. Anyway, if Mr Wilding was such a great businessman, how come he lost his business? Everyone knew Wildings. Up Telford Way, it was. My sister worked there at one time, and my niece, and one of my cousins was a machine operator. I never worked, of course. My hubby couldn’t do with a wife at work, could you, Gordon? And I was married straight from school. That’s another thing – she didn’t have anything to brag about, that Mrs Wilding. Just a typist, she was, though she called herself a secretary. And he was already married when she got her hooks into him. Ramshackle business that was, whichever way you look at it. But I was sorry for her, if you want to know. I wouldn’t have wanted to be married to that man. Something very sinister about him, that’s what I always said, didn’t I, Gordon?’

‘In what way, sinister?’ Atherton managed to ask. The armchair was so old and soft he had sunk almost to the floor, and his knees were in danger of banging his chin whenever he moved. There was no way he could get his teacup to his lips, so he went without. Shame, because he was thirsty. It was a hot day outside, and while the room was on the shady side of the house, it was absolutely airless and smelled faintly of dust. It was like being trapped inside a Hoover bag.

Mrs Barrett bridled and touched her hair. ‘Too good to be true! That’s what I always said. What was he hiding? All that do-gooding and churchiness. And High Church at that! Bells and smells and bowing and scraping. I can’t be doing with all that mumbo jumbo. Plain vanilla, that’s how we like our religion, don’t we, Gordon? Next door to Catholics, his lot. All that fancy dress, robes and hats and gold embroidery. Hypocrisy, that’s what I call it. Sheer hypocrisy. If I want to worship my God, I can do it naked in a field, that’s what I always say.’

Atherton tried not to imagine this. ‘So you think he wasn’t really a Christian?’

‘Well . . . I don’t say that,’ she said with the air of one determined to be fair at all costs. ‘He