A Sleeping Life

Chapter 21

‘It never occurred to you then that a girl who never went out alone after dark must have had some very good reason for being out alone all that evening and half the night? You didn’t think of that aspect? You had forgotten perhaps that that was the evening of Rhoda Comfrey’s murder?’

She shook her head guilelessly 'No, I didn’t think about it. It couldn’t have had anything to do with me or Polly.’

Wexford looked at her steadily. She looked back at him, her fingers beginning to pick at the gold embroideries on the tunic whose whiteness set off her orchid skin. At last the seriousness of his gaze affected her, forcing her to use whatever powers of reasoning she had. The whole pretty sweet silly facade broke, and she let out a shattering scream.

‘Christ,’ said Loring.

She began to scream hysterically, throwing back her head. The heroine, Wexford thought unsympathetically, going mad in white satin. ‘Oh, slap her face or something,’ he said and walked out into the hall. Apart from the screeches, and now the choking sounds and sobs from the kitchen, the flat was quite silent. It struck him that Pauline Flinders must be in the grip of some overpowering emotion, or stunned into a fugue, not to have reacted to those screams and come out to inquire. He looked forward with dread and with distaste to the task ahead of him.

All the other doors were closed. He tapped on the one that led to the living room where he had interviewed her before. She didn’t speak, but opened the door and looked at him with great sorrow and hopelessness. Everything she wore and everything about her seemed to drag her down, the flopping hair, the stooping shoulders, the loose overblouse and the long skirt, compelling the eye of the beholder also to droop and fall. Today there was no script on the table, no paper in the typewriter. No book or magazine lay open. She had been sitting there waiting – for how many hours? – paralysed, capable of no action.

‘Sit down. Miss Flinders,’ he said. It was horrible to have to torture her, but if he was to get what he wanted he had no choice. ‘Don’t try to find excuses for not telling me the name of the man you spent the evening of August eighth with. I know there was no man.’

She tensed at that and darted him a look of terror, and he knew why. But he let it pass. Out of pity for her, his mind was working quickly, examining this which was so fresh to him, so recently realized, trying to get enough grasp on it to decide whether the whole truth need come out. But even at this stage, with half the facts still to be understood, he knew he couldn’t comfort her with that one. She hunched in a chair, the pale hair curtaining her face.

‘You were afraid to go out alone at night,’ he said, ‘and for good reason. You were once attacked in the dark by a man, weren’t you, and very badly frightened?’

The hair shivered, her bent body nodded.

‘You wished it were legal in this country for people to carry guns for protection. It’s illegal too to carry knives but knives are easier to come by. How long is it. Miss Flinders, since you have been carrying a knife in your handbag?’

She murmured, ‘Nearly a year.’

‘A flick knife, I suppose. The kind with a concealed blade that appears when you press a projection on the hilt. Where is that knife now?’

‘I threw it into the canal at Kenbourne Lock.’

Never before had he so much wished he could leave someone in her position alone. He opened the door and called to Loring to come in. The girl bunched her lips over her teeth, straightened her shoulders, her face very white.

‘Let us at least try to be comfortable,’ said Wexford, and he motioned her to sit beside him on the sofa while Loring took the chair she had vacated. ‘I’m going to tell you a story.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘I’m going to tell you how this case appears.’

‘There was a woman of thirty called Rhoda Comfrey who came from Kingsmarkham in Sussex to London where she lived for some time on the income from a football pools win, a sum which I think must have been in the region of ten thousand pounds. When the money began to run out she supplemented it with an income derived from blackmail, and she called herself West, Mrs West, because the name Comfrey and her single status were distasteful to her. After some time she netted a young man, a foreigner, who had no right to be in this country but who, like Joseph Conrad before him, wanted to live here and write his books in English. Rhoda Comfrey offered him an identity and a history, a mother and father, a family and a birth certificate. He was to take the name of someone who would never need national insurance or a passport because he had been and always would be in an institution for the mentally handicapped – her cousin, John Grenville West. This the young man did.'

‘The secret bound them together in a long uneasy friendship. He dedicated his third novel to her, for it was certain that without her that book would never have been written. He would not have been here to write it. Was he Russian perhaps? Or some other kind of Slav? Whatever he was, seeking asylum, she gave him the identity of a real person who would never need to use his reality and who was himself in an asylum of a different kind. And what did she get from him? A young and personal man to be her escort and her companion. He was homosexual, of course, she knew that. All the better. She was not a highly sexed woman. It was not love and satisfaction she wanted, but a man to show off to observers. How disconcerting for her, therefore, when he took on a young girl to type his manuscripts for him, and that young girl fell in love with him…’

Polly Flinders made a sound of pain, a single soft ‘Ah’ perhaps irrepressible. Wexford paused, then went on.

‘He wasn’t in love with her. But he was growing older, he was nearly middle-aged. What sort of dignified future had a homosexual who follows the kind of life-style he had been following into his forties? He decided to marry, to settle down – at least superficially – to add another line to that biography of his on the back of his books.Perhaps he hadn’t considered what this would mean to the woman who had created him and received his confidences, it was not she, twelve years his senior, he intended marrying but a girl half her age. To stop him, she threatened to expose his true nationality, his illegalities and his homosexual conduct. He had no choice but to kill her.’

Wexford looked at Polly Flinders who was looking hard at him.

‘But it wasn’t quite like that, was it?’ he said.