Roots of Evil(90)

Fran stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring out into the half-lit hall and the old-fashioned Victorian stained-glass panels of the door. Silence. No one there after all. And then a dark shape – unmistakably that of a man – stepped into the porch and a hand came up to lift the door-knocker.

This time Fran’s heart leapt into her throat, even though logic was already pointing out that it was most likely someone from school wanting to know if there was any news about Trixie’s killer, poor old Trixie, or even the Deputy Head inquiring how the packing up of Trixie’s things was going. But before she went out to answer the knock, some instinct made Fran snatch up a teatowel and drop it over Alraune’s photograph.

‘I could have thought up an excuse about you having left something at Quondam yesterday and that I was returning it,’ said the man standing on the step. ‘But I won’t bother with that. The truth is that I wanted to see you again.’

His coat collar was turned up against the cold and his hair was lightly misted with the rain. But his eyes were the same: grey and clear and fringed with black lashes, and the smile was the same as well; outwardly reserved but with that faint promise of something that was not reserved at all.

‘Hello, Michael,’ said Francesca. ‘Come in.’



It was as easy to be with him as it had been at Deborah Fane’s house, or at Quondam’s offices yesterday. There was no awkwardness; it was like meeting up with an old and trusted friend; one with whom you were always on the same wavelength even when you had not met for years. Francesca thought this was probably something to do with that appalling experience inside Ashwood, and then she glanced at Michael again and thought it was nothing to do with that.

He sat at the kitchen table while Fran made coffee, and talked a bit about yesterday’s film, and asked how she had coped with the police interviews.

‘Reasonably well. The police were more courteous than I expected. I had to make a statement and give them as much information as I could about Trixie. Which wasn’t so very much when it came down to it. You?’

‘Much the same. Questions about when and where and how, and can anyone verify that, sir. In the main, nobody could verify anything about my movements,’ said Michael. ‘I live on my own.’

So he was not married or, from the sound of it, linked up to anyone. Francesca found this slightly surprising. With his looks he must have had opportunities, to say the very least. Yes, but there was that reserve; that would make it quite difficult to get close to him. She suddenly wanted to find out if she could do so. This would be nothing more than curiosity, though.

The kitchen was rather old-fashioned – Trixie had thought it a waste of good money to spend out on streamlined appliances when the old ones were still perfectly serviceable, and could not see the point of papering walls or painting doors every five minutes when the dogs scratched things to shreds as soon as your back was turned – but in an odd way the outdated background suited Michael. Fran, studying him covertly over her coffee mug, thought he did not entirely belong in the hard-edged world of high technology or fast foods or computer-generated music in supermarkets. She remembered that her original impression had been of someone whose spiritual home was an Oxford common-room, but seeing him again she revised this and set him instead against the background of an old house – not an especially quaint or inglenook-picturesque place, just a fairly old house with a good many books that had been well read, and perhaps a nice untidiness of music and old programmes of plays or exhibitions seen and enjoyed, and maybe notes for a book he would never get round to writing…

And then she remembered that his work took him into the world of homeless teenagers and concrete-block skyscraper flats, and into the twilit realms of drugs and crime and sullen or violent adolescents, and her opinion of him received another shake, like a child’s kaleidoscope rearranging the colours and the patterns, although she was not sure precisely how the colours and patterns would fall.

She was just wondering how he would take it if she offered to make an omelette for them to share – it was coming up to seven o’clock – when Michael said, ‘You’ve probably already got some kind of commitment for tonight – I know teachers are always having to attend parent meetings and things – but if not, I noticed an Italian restaurant just along the road. It looked quite good. If you can eat pasta and feel like some company for a couple of hours—’

It was nicely done. He had made the suggestion in a casual way, at the same time presenting her with a polite get-out which would not make either of them feel awkward. Fran said at once that she loved pasta. ‘And the only thing I was going to do this evening was pack away some more of Trixie’s things.’

‘Do I need to ring up to book a table?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. They get quite busy during the week because the food’s good, but Sunday evenings are usually fairly quiet. How about if I just rinse these coffee cups and then dash upstairs for a quick wash.’ She could scramble into something a bit more respectable than the ancient jeans and dust-streaked shirt she was wearing, although there was no need to say this.

‘All right.’

He carried his cup to the sink, and Fran turned on the taps and without thinking reached for the teatowel covering the photograph.

Michael saw the photograph at once, and he saw the slanting writing under it, and he flinched visibly as if someone had suddenly shone a too-bright light into his face, or as if he had received a blow. Francesca, still holding the teatowel, turned to stare at him. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained and harsh and so different from his normal voice that it was as if a stranger had taken his place.