"All Shall Be Well" - читать интересную книгу автора (Crombie Deborah)

Chapter Five

Kincaid unsnapped the Midget's tarp and folded it from front to back, then unlocked the boot and stowed it away. He accomplished the maneuver neatly and quickly, having perfected it with much practice. The car's red paintwork gleamed cheerily at him, inviting dalliance in the midafternoon sun, but Kincaid shook his head and slid into the driver's seat. An idle down country lanes was not what he had in mind, tourist-poster day or not. He fished his sunglasses out of the door pocket, and put the car in gear.

After he crossed Rosslyn Hill, Kincaid made his way through the back streets of South Hampstead until he came into Kilburn High Road, just north of Maida Vale. He found Margaret Bellamy's address without difficulty, a dingy, terraced house in a block that had avoided gentrification. The front door was the dark red-brown of dried blood, but its peeling paint showed blotches of brighter colors beneath-lime-green, yellow, royal-blue-testimony to previous owners with more cheerful dispositions. He rang the bell and waited, wrinkling his nose against the odor drifting up from the rubbish bins below the basement railing.

The woman who opened the door wore polyester trousers stretched precariously over her bulky thighs, and a shiny jersey endured equal punishment across her bosom. She eyed Kincaid disapprovingly.

"Margaret Bellamy?" Kincaid tried out his best smile, wondering if she could hear him over the canned laughter bellowing from the back of the house.

The woman studied him a bit longer, then jerked her head toward the stairs. "Top of the house. On the right."

Kincaid thanked her and started up the steps, feeling her eyes on his back until he rounded the first landing. The smell of grease and the raucous sounds of the television followed him up three more flights, where the stairs ended in a dim hallway with streakily distempered walls. The two doors were unmarked and he tapped lightly on the right-hand one.

The sound of the downstairs' television switched off, and in the sudden silence Kincaid heard the creak of bedsprings. Margaret Bellamy opened the door with an expectant half-smile. "Oh. It's you," she said, disappointment evident in her swollen face. She made an effort to smile again. "You'd better come in." Jerking her head toward the hall as she drew him in, she added, "She's listening, the horrid old snoop. That's why she turned the telly off." Margaret closed the door and stood awkwardly, as if she didn't know what to do with Kincaid now that she'd shut him in. She looked round the small room and grimaced.

He took in the small bed with its rumpled covers sagging to the floor, a single, stained armchair, a wardrobe, and an old deal table which seemed to serve as desk, dresser, and kitchen.

Margaret made a small, circular motion with her hand and said, "I'm sorry." Kincaid thought the apology covered both herself and the room.

He smiled at her. "I lived in a bedsit myself, when I was training at the Academy. It was pretty dreadful, though I don't think my landlady could've held a candle to yours." This brought an answering smile from Margaret, and she moved to clear the chair for him. As she bent to scoop up a pile of clothes, she staggered and had to steady herself against the chair back.

"Are you all right?" Kincaid asked, and studied her more carefully. Her soft, brown hair was matted, and her eyelids were puffy from weeping. She wore a large T-shirt which had a section of its tail bunched in the waistband of faded gray sweatpants-probably the result of pulling them on hastily when he knocked on the door.

"Have you been out today at all?" he asked.

Margaret shook her head.

"Eaten?"

"No."

"I thought as much. Have you anything here?"

Another negative shake. "Just some tea, really."

Kincaid thought for a moment, then said briskly, "You make us some tea. I'll go down and ask your landlady to put together some sandwiches."

Margaret looked horrified. "She'd never… She wouldn't-"

"She will." He stopped at the door. "Though if Saint George is going to conquer the dragon, he'd better know her name."

"Oh." A flicker of amusement lit Margaret's face. "It's Mrs. Wilson."

The door from which Kincaid guessed Mrs. Wilson had emerged earlier stood slightly ajar. He tapped smartly. The television still played very faintly, and over it he heard the shuffle of slipper-clad feet. The door opened a moment later and Mrs. Wilson squinted at him through the cigarette smoke which trickled from her nostrils. A dragon indeed.

"Mrs. Wilson?"

She glared at him suspiciously. "What of it?"

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Not if you're aimin' to sell me something." The door began to inch closed. "I don't hold with solicitation."

Kincaid wondered what she thought he could be selling. "No. It's about Margaret. Please."

She snorted with annoyance, but stepped back enough to let Kincaid into the room. He surveyed Mrs. Wilson's lair with interest. It apparently served as sitting room as well as kitchen-a small sofa was jammed between the fittings, and large color television held pride of place next to the fridge.

Mrs. Wilson sat down at the Formica-topped table and picked up the cigarette which lay smoldering in the ashtray. An open tabloid and a half-drunk cup of tea were evidence of her afternoon's activity. She didn't invite Kincaid to sit down.

"She's all wet, that girl," Mrs. Wilson pronounced disgustedly. "What's up now? More trouble with the boyfriend?"

Boyfriend? That was a complication he somehow hadn't expected, but it explained Margaret's dashed hopes when she'd opened the door. Kincaid thought quickly. What story would satisfy this harridan? From the looks of the headline in her paper-"Eleven-year-old mum fights authorities for baby!"-Mrs. Wilson's sympathies were aroused by melodrama, but the truth seemed a betrayal of both Margaret and Jasmine.

He improvised. "It's her uncle. Died suddenly yesterday, and Margaret's not taken it well at all."

Mrs. Wilson's heavy face remained as unmoved as her stiffly permed hair. "Figures." She looked at Kincaid suspiciously. "What do you have to do with it, anyway?"

"I'm a friend of the family. Duncan Kincaid." He held out his hand and Mrs. Wilson condescended to touch her pudgy fingertips to his before retrieving her half-smoked cigarette.

"So what's it to me?"

"She's not eaten anything since yesterday. I thought you might make her up some sandwiches?" Kincaid made the last remark with a raised eyebrow and as much persuasion as he could muster.

Mrs. Wilson opened her mouth to refuse, then stopped and eyed Kincaid speculatively. Desire for gossip warred with her natural inclination to do as little for anyone as possible, and maliciousness triumphed over sloth. "Well, I suppose I could just put something together, but I don't want her getting any ideas, mind you." She levered herself out of the chair, then jerked her head toward the vacant seat. "You'd better sit down." She continued over her shoulder as she opened the fridge, "Would this be her mother's brother or her father's that passed away?"

"Her mother's youngest brother, not much older than Margaret, in fact," Kincaid said glibly. "They were very close."

Mrs. Wilson spoke with her back to Kincaid, slicing something he couldn't see. "No family's ever had anything to do with her since she came here. Might as well be an orphan."

"Well, at least she's had her boyfriend to look after her," Kincaid threw out.

"Him!" Mrs. Wilson turned around and fixed Kincaid with a beady stare. "That one never looked after anything but himself, I can tell you. Sponging, more like it." She turned back to her slicing. "Too pretty for his own good, and oily with it. What he sees in her," she lifted her head toward the ceiling, "I don't know." She wiped her hands on her apron and presented Kincaid with a plate of squashy, if edible looking, ham and tomato sandwiches. "That do?"

"Admirably, thanks."

Having finished her task, Mrs. Wilson seemed disinclined to let him go. She lit another cigarette and propped her hip up on the edge of the table. Kincaid looked away from the sight of her spreading thigh and settled his weight back into the chair.

Mrs. Wilson took up her train of thought again. "I've told her I don't want him hanging around here, nor spending the night. Gives my house a bad name, don't it?"

Kincaid assumed the question was rhetorical, but answered it placatingly anyway. "I'm sure no one would think such a thing, Mrs. Wilson."

Mrs. Wilson preened a bit at this, and leaned toward him conspiratorially. "She thinks I don't know what's going on, but I do. I hear him come padding down the stairs at all hours of the night, like a thief. And I hear the rows, too," a pause while she inhaled and sent a cloud of smoke in the direction of Kincaid's face, "mostly him shouting and her wailing like a lamb led to slaughter. Silly cow," Mrs. Wilson finished with a snort. "I imagine she puts up with it 'cause she thinks she won't do any better."

Charitable old bitch, Kincaid thought, and smiled at her. "Then I don't suppose he's much comfort to her, at a time like this?"

"Not been here to comfort, or for anything else. Not since…" Mrs. Wilson squinted and drew on the last of her cigarette, then ground it out in the cheap tin ashtray. "Oh, must have been Thursday tea-time. He stormed out of here in a terrible temper. Near ripped the door off its hinges. But then," she shifted her weight as she thought and the table creaked in protest, "Thursday night is Ladies' Night down at the pub and I was out till closing. If he came back later they were quiet enough making it up."

Kincaid decided he'd exhausted Mrs. Wilson's information for the time being, as well as his patience. He stood up and retrieved the sandwiches. "I don't want these to go stale, and I'd better be seeing about Margaret. I'm sure she'll appreciate your help, Mrs. Wilson. You've been very kind."

"Ta," she said, and wiggled her fingers at him coquettishly.

"Success," Kincaid said when Margaret let him in again. In his absence she had tidied the bed and the scattered clothing, brushed her hair, and put on some pale pink lipstick. Her smile was less tentative, and he thought the time spent alone had brought her some composure.

Margaret's eyes widened as she saw the plate of sandwiches. "I can't believe it! She's never so much as loaned me a tea bag."

"I appealed to her better instincts."

"Didn't know she had any," Margaret snorted, taking the plate from Kincaid. Then she froze, her face crumpling with distress. "You didn't tell her-"

"No." Kincaid rescued the tilting plate and set it on the table. "I told a pack of lies. You've just lost your favorite uncle, your mother's youngest brother, in case Mrs. W. asks."

"But she doesn't have-" Margaret's face cleared. "Oh. Sorry." She smiled at Kincaid. "I guess I'm a little dense today. Thanks."

"Partly hunger, I imagine. Let's get you fed." The electric kettle whistled. Two mugs with tea bags sat ready be-side it. Kincaid poured the tea and settled Margaret in the armchair, then pulled up the sash of the single window and leaned against the sill. As Margaret started on a sandwich, he said, "You'd better tell me about your family, after all the terrible things I made up."

"Woking," said Margaret, through a mouthful of ham and tomato. She swallowed and tried again. "Dorking. Sorry. I didn't realize I was so hungry." She took a smaller bite and chewed a moment before continuing. "I'm from Dorking. My dad owns a garage. I kept his books for him, looked after things."

Kincaid could easily imagine her managing a smaller, more familiar world, where here in London she seemed so vulnerable. "What happened?"

Margaret shrugged and wiped the corner of her mouth with a finger. "Nothing ever changed. I could see myself doing the same thing in twenty years, living bits and pieces of other people's lives. My dad's business, my sister's kids-"

"How did they take it?"

Margaret smiled, mocking herself. "I'm the plain one, so they never expected me to want anything different. I should have been content to have Dad's customers pat me and pay me stupid compliments, to be Aunt Meg and look after Kath's kids whenever she had something better to do."

"They were furious." Kincaid grinned and Margaret smiled back a little unwillingly.

"Yes."

"How long has it been?"

Margaret finished the last sandwich and licked the tips of her fingers, then rubbed them dry on her sweatpants. "Eighteen months now."

"And no one's been to see you in all that time?"

She flushed and said hotly, "That malicious old biddy. I'd swear she keeps a list of anyone who-" Margaret dropped her head into her hands and leaned forward. "Oh Christ, what difference does it make? I feel sick."

Too much food, thought Kincaid, eaten too quickly on an empty stomach. "Keep your head down. It'll pass." He spied a worn face flannel and towel, folded on a shelf above the bed. "Where's the loo?" he asked Margaret.

"Next landing," she said indistinctly, her face now pressed against her knees.

Kincaid took the flannel downstairs and soaked it in cold water, and when he returned Margaret raised her head just long enough to press the cloth against her face. He moved restlessly to the window, wishing he had Gemma's skill at offering practical comfort.

The view-a small, weedy garden with an enormous pair of overalls swinging on the line-didn't hold his attention for long. Turning back to the room, Kincaid took note of Margaret's few possessions. The table held a handful of cheap jewelry in a dish, and a few cosmetic and lotion bottles. Next to the gas ring were a chipped plate and bowl, a saucepan and some cutlery. All the utensils were jumble sale quality, the cheapest necessities for a first move from home. The shelf above the bed held a radio, some dogeared paperbacks, and a framed photograph.

Kincaid stepped closer to study it. An older man, balding and hearty-looking in a tweed jacket, arm around his wife's slender shoulders, the three grown children grouped before them. A brother and sister, blond, good-looking, both radiating assurance, and between them Margaret, hair askew, smile lopsided.

"Mum and Dad, Kathleen, and my brother, Tommy."

Kincaid made an effort to wipe any sympathy from his face before he turned. Margaret watched him, waiting, he sensed, for some expected comment. Instead, he sat down on the bed and said, "It must have been tough, those first few months on your own."

"It was." Margaret looked down at the damp flannel in her hands and began folding it into smaller and smaller squares. "There wasn't anyone until I met Jasmine. I got a job in the typing pool in the Planning Office. When I did work for her she was always kind to me, but not"-a pause while she thought-"familiar, if you know what I mean." She looked up at Kincaid for assent, and he nodded. "A little distant. But then she got ill. She took leave for treatment, and when she came back you could tell she'd gone down, but no one spoke to her about it. They all acted like her illness didn't exist." Margaret looked up at him through her pale lashes and smiled a little at her own nerve. "So I asked her. Every day I'd say "How are you?" or "What are they giving you now?" and after a while she began to tell me."

"And when she left work?" Kincaid prompted.

"I went to see her. Every day if I could. No one else did." Margaret sounded indignant even now. "Oh, they'd club together on cards or a basket, but no one ever put themselves out to visit her."

"Did Jasmine mind?"

Margaret's wide brow creased as she thought about it. "I don't think so. She didn't seem to have any really close friends at work. No one disliked her, but they weren't chummy either." Margaret smiled at Kincaid a bit ironically. "She talked about you most often."

Kincaid stood up and took the few steps to the window.

He had put off telling her the p.m. results long enough, and he tried to frame a gentle way to tell her that Jasmine had not died quietly in her sleep.

"Look." Margaret's voice came from behind him. "I know you didn't come here just to look after me. Jasmine didn't keep her promise, did she?"

Kincaid thought Margaret might have read his mind. He sat down opposite her again and searched her face. "I don't know. Her system contained a massive amount of morphine."

Margaret slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes. Tears welled from beneath her eyelids and ran down the sides of her nose. After a moment she leaned forward and rubbed her face with the crumpled flannel. "I should never have believed her." She barely whispered the words as she rocked her body backwards and forwards.

"Look, Meg. If Jasmine were determined to kill herself, there's no way you could have prevented her. Oh, for one night, maybe, but not indefinitely." When Margaret continued rocking, eyes closed, he leaned closer. "Listen, Meg. There are some things I need to know, and you're the only one who can help me."

The rocking slowed, then stopped. Margaret opened her eyes but stayed hunched over, arms crossed protectively over her stomach.

"Tell me why Jasmine needed your help."

"She didn't-" Margaret's voice caught. She reached for the cold dregs of her tea and swallowed convulsively, then tried again. "She didn't. Not really. I helped her figure the dosage-she was morphine dependent so we knew it would take a lot-but she could have done it herself. There was enough morphine, because she'd been maintaining the level she actually used while telling the nurse she needed her dosage increased. And the catheter would have held traces anyway."

"Then why?" Kincaid asked again, holding her gaze with his.

"I don't know. I suppose she just didn't want to be alone at the last."

Had Jasmine given in to weakness by asking Margaret's help, wondered Kincaid, and then found unexpected strength? He shook his head. It was possible, probable, logical, and yet he still couldn't believe it.

"What is it?" asked Margaret, sitting up a bit.

"Did Jasmine have-" Kincaid stopped as the door opened soundlessly. A man stepped into the room, regarding Kincaid and Margaret with an expression of amused contempt.

Margaret, sitting with her back to the door, frowned at Kincaid in bewilderment and said, "What's the-"

"Well." The man spoke, the single syllable dripping with unsavory implications.

Margaret jerked at the sound of his voice and leapt to her feet, her face flushing an unbecoming, splotchy scarlet. "Rog-"

"Don't get up, Meg. I didn't expect you to be entertaining." Apart from a brief glance in Margaret's direction, all his attention was fixed on Kincaid.

Returning the scrutiny with interest and an immediate dislike, Kincaid saw a slender man of middle height, in perhaps his late twenties, wearing designer jeans and an expensive white cotton shirt open part way down the chest, cuffs turned back. He wore his light red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and his features were clearly cut. He was, Kincaid thought wryly, smashingly good-looking.

Margaret stood rigidly, gripping the back of her chair, and when she spoke her voice was high and uncontrolled. "Roger, where have you been? I've been wait-"

"Why the panic, Meg?" Roger didn't move from his slouching stance in the middle of the room, and made no effort to touch or comfort Margaret. "Don't you think introductions are in order?"

Kincaid took the initiative before Margaret could blurt anything out. "My name's Kincaid." He stood and held his hand out to Roger, who shook it with no great enthusiasm. "I'm a neighbor of Margaret's friend Jasmine Dent."

"Jasmine's dead, Rog. She died on Thursday night. I couldn't reach you anywhere." Margaret trembled visibly.

Roger's eyebrows lifted. "Is that so? And you came to tell Margaret?"

"I came to see how she was getting on," Kincaid said mildly, leaning back against the edge of the table and folding his arms.

"How kind of you." Roger's public-school accent expressed sarcasm well. "Poor Meg." For the first time he took a step toward her, reaching out and pulling her stiff body to him in a brief embrace. He swiveled her around toward Kincaid again and rested a hand lightly on the back of her neck. "It must have been a shock, her going sooner than anyone expected."

"It wasn't like that. Jasmine died from an overdose of morphine," Margaret said, watching Kincaid's face as she spoke, seeking support. Roger let her go abruptly and she moved away from him.

"That's too bad, Meg. I'm sorry she-"

"Duncan knows about the suicide," she jerked her head toward Kincaid, "so don't bother to say you're sorry, Rog. I know you're not. No need for you to worry now."

"Worry? Don't be absurd, Meg."

Roger's voice was light, almost playful, but Kincaid sensed wariness replacing the nonchalance. "There is another possibility, you know," Kincaid said into the tension that vibrated in the room. Both faces turned toward him, Meg's bewildered, Roger's alert. "Someone might have given Jasmine help she didn't want."

"I don't…" Margaret began, then looked at Roger who, Kincaid thought, understood all too well.

The silence lengthened, until Kincaid straightened up and stretched. "I'm afraid I never caught your last name," he said to Roger.

Roger hesitated, then volunteered grudgingly, "It's Leveson-Gower." He pronounced it "Loos-n-gor."

How fittingly posh, Kincaid thought. He moved toward the door, then turned back to Margaret. "I'll be off, then. Are you sure you'll be all right, Meg?"

Margaret nodded uncertainly. Roger wrapped an arm around her waist, and with the other ran his fingernails slowly up her bare arm. Kincaid saw her nipples grow hard under her thin cotton shirt. She looked away from him, flushing.

"Meg will be just fine, won't you, love?" said Roger.

Kincaid turned back to them as he opened the door. "By the way, Roger, where were you on Thursday night?"

Roger still held Margaret before him, part shield, part possession. "What's it to you?"

"I've a bad habit of liking people to account for themselves. I'm a copper." Kincaid smiled at them both and let himself out.