Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(69)

Lynn introduced herself before ordering a cappuccino and dragging over an empty stool.

Patricia Falk was in, she guessed, her early forties but could have passed for less. Her eyes were alert and bright behind simple round spectacles with gold rims; her dark hair had been cut short, but stylishly, and azure blue birds hung down from her ears. When Lynn had asked her on the telephone what she did, she had said, somewhat dismissively, “Oh, I work with voluntary groups,” as if that were explanation enough.

A few minutes’ chat about the journey and the day and then she plunged in. “This is about Jane,” Patricia said. “Jane’s murder.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I read it. It was just … You never think, when you hear about these things, it’s going to be anybody you know. I mean, burglaries, yes, someone losing a bike, their car stereo, but this …” She drank some coffee and shifted her position on the stool. “You know, I only worked with her for a year. Less. I left halfway through the summer term.”

“Had something happened?”

Patricia smiled. “I’d seen the way things were going. National curriculum. Testing. The days when you could expect to be creative as a teacher were at an end. And if the teachers aren’t allowed to be creative, what chance is there for the kids?”

Lynn nodded, uncertain; the only kids she regularly came in touch with didn’t seem to have a problem with creativity: they could be relied upon to find new ways to cheat and steal and the stories they told to cover up for what they did would have made Hans Christian Andersen seem like a candidate for Special Needs.

“Would you say, though, you knew her well?”

“Pretty well, yes. Considering the amount of time we spent together.”

“You went out with her a few times, I think. Her and her husband. A foursome.”

Patricia, whose head had begun to tilt inquiringly to one side, let out a knowing laugh. “Oh, you’ve been talking to Prentiss. I thought someone had been doing a diligent trawl through old staff records at the school. But, no, now I see. Well, that’s a name from the past I hadn’t expected to hear again.”

“You haven’t kept in touch, then?”

“In touch and Alan aren’t terms that go together. Which is strange, considering his chosen profession. I told him, he should have been a priest instead of an osteopath. No need for physical contact other than a religious laying on of hands.”

“He wasn’t what you’d call,” Lynn asked, “a particularly passionate man?”

“In his head, maybe.” Seeing Lynn’s raised eyebrow, she gave a rueful smile. “Sorry, I sound bitter, don’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you do.”

“Are you married?”

Lynn shook her head.

“A man?”

“No.”

“A woman, then?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’re lucky.”

And maybe I’m not, Lynn thought.

“God help me,” Patricia said, “what I did with Prentiss was, made this image of him. It was as if I’d taken bits of him, all the different bits, and put them together in some totally different way. And that was what I saw, that was what I wanted, but, of course, he wasn’t there, he wasn’t like that, only inside my head. And it took me—what?—five months of miserable, disappointed evenings before I finally realized. Five months of going out with this … this phantom.” Patricia laughed. “Can you believe that?”

Even Lynn was smiling. How long had she shared her life with the cyclist, shared her flat with him? Cog wheels on the carpet and time charts taped to the kitchen wall. Whatever had she thought he was going to turn out to be? “Yes,” she said, “I’m afraid I can.”

“Whereas Jane, poor Jane. She knew what she wanted and she got it in spades.”

“Which was what?”

“Someone strong, intelligent, absolutely committed to her. Someone who, no matter what else, needed her.”

“He was in love with her, then? Alex?”

“If that’s a definition of love, yes.”

“You don’t think it is?”

“Oh, I think it might be missing a few things, don’t you? Tolerance. Space. Freedom. Room to develop, change. Just room to breathe.”

“And she didn’t have those?”

“Did you ever meet Jane? Did you ever see her and Alex together?”

Lynn shook her head; she didn’t want to say the only time she’d seen Jane Peterson was when she was dead.

“When she was on her own, working, for instance, with the kids, she … well, she had a mind, she was lively, fun to be with, she became involved—a little too much so at times, she could be over-intense about things. In Alex’s company she was this …” Patricia finished the last of her coffee. “She was like his little dog, you know, a pet dog. Alex would be all for showing her off, bragging about how attractive she was and all of that, and then it was as if he’d encourage her to say stuff, you know, get excited, do tricks, and when she was really into it, he’d slap her down.”

“Slap?”

“Not literally. Slap.” Patricia’s hand steadied in the middle of putting down her empty cup. Never taking her eyes off Lynn, she asked, “He didn’t hit her, did he? Alex? He didn’t …”