Read Online Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth George
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felt only shame at the base selfishness of his own motivation. Here was the real void. Whatever loneliness or loss he felt was risible by comparison.
“Mr. Whateley?” He offered his police identification. “Thomas Lynley. Scotland Yard CID.”
Whateley’s eyes made no move to study the warrant card. He gave no immediate indication that he had heard Lynley. Looking at him, Lynley saw that he’d probably only just returned from identifying his son’s body, for he was wearing a threadbare peaked wool cap, and under his thinning tweed overcoat a brown suit gaped round his neck and sagged at his knees.
His face told Lynley that he would deal with loss through the means of denial. Every muscle was held in rigid control. His grey eyes looked dull, like unpolished stones.
“May I come in, Mr. Whateley? I need to ask you some questions. I realise how late it is, but the sooner I can get information—”
“No good, is it? Information won’t bring Mattie back.”
“You’re right. It won’t. It’ll only bring justice. And I know that justice is a meagre replacement for your son. Believe me. I do know that.”
“Kev?” a woman’s voice called from the upper floor. It sounded weak, perhaps sedated. Whateley’s eyes shifted in the direction of the sound, but it was the only indication he gave that he had heard it. He did not move from the doorway.
“Have you anyone to stay the night with you?” Lynley asked.
“We don’t want no one,” Whateley replied. “Pats and me will cope. Just us.”
“Kev?” The woman’s voice was closer now, and steps sounded upon uncarpeted stairs somewhere behind the door. “Who is it?”
Whateley looked over his shoulder at the woman who was out of Lynley’s line of vision. “Police. Some bloke from Scotland Yard.”
“Let him in.” Whateley still did not move. “Kev, let him in.”
Her hand came round the side of the door, pulling it completely open and giving Lynley a chance to see Patsy Whateley for the first time. The mother of the dead boy was, he guessed, in her late forties, an ordinary woman who, even in grieving, would fade into faceless anonymity within a crowd. On the street she probably would not garner a moment’s attention from anyone at this time in her life, no matter the transitory beauties that might have graced her youth. Her womanly figure had thickened through time, making her appear more solid than she probably was. Her hair was very dark, that sort of uncompromising black which comes from a hasty application of inexpensive dye rather than from nature, and it lay unevenly against her skull. Her nylon dressing gown was wrinkled, printed with Chinese dragons that snarled across her bosom and down her hips. That the dressing gown, for all its garish design, was a possession holding meaning for Patsy Whateley was attested to by the fact that her green slippers had obviously been chosen in an unsuccessful attempt to match the dragons on the gown itself.
“Come in.” She reached for the sash of her dressing gown. “I look like…Not done much, you see…since…”
“Please. It’s fine, Mrs. Whateley.” Lynley sought to brush her words away. What did the poor woman think he expected from the mother of a child who’d just been found murdered? he asked himself. Haute couture? The idea was absurd, yet still, with one hand smoothing down a rucked seam, she seemed to be comparing her appearance with his, as if his tailored presence was somehow a derogation of her own. He felt distinctly uncomfortable and wished for the first time that he had thought far enough ahead to bring Sergeant Havers. Her working-class background and sartorial nonchalance would have eased them through the superficial difficulties created by his own blasted upper-crust accent and his Savile Row clothes.
The door admitted him directly into the cottage sitting room. It was sparsely furnished with a three-piece suite, a sideboard constructed of Formica-topped pressed wood, a
“Mr. Whateley?” He offered his police identification. “Thomas Lynley. Scotland Yard CID.”
Whateley’s eyes made no move to study the warrant card. He gave no immediate indication that he had heard Lynley. Looking at him, Lynley saw that he’d probably only just returned from identifying his son’s body, for he was wearing a threadbare peaked wool cap, and under his thinning tweed overcoat a brown suit gaped round his neck and sagged at his knees.
His face told Lynley that he would deal with loss through the means of denial. Every muscle was held in rigid control. His grey eyes looked dull, like unpolished stones.
“May I come in, Mr. Whateley? I need to ask you some questions. I realise how late it is, but the sooner I can get information—”
“No good, is it? Information won’t bring Mattie back.”
“You’re right. It won’t. It’ll only bring justice. And I know that justice is a meagre replacement for your son. Believe me. I do know that.”
“Kev?” a woman’s voice called from the upper floor. It sounded weak, perhaps sedated. Whateley’s eyes shifted in the direction of the sound, but it was the only indication he gave that he had heard it. He did not move from the doorway.
“Have you anyone to stay the night with you?” Lynley asked.
“We don’t want no one,” Whateley replied. “Pats and me will cope. Just us.”
“Kev?” The woman’s voice was closer now, and steps sounded upon uncarpeted stairs somewhere behind the door. “Who is it?”
Whateley looked over his shoulder at the woman who was out of Lynley’s line of vision. “Police. Some bloke from Scotland Yard.”
“Let him in.” Whateley still did not move. “Kev, let him in.”
Her hand came round the side of the door, pulling it completely open and giving Lynley a chance to see Patsy Whateley for the first time. The mother of the dead boy was, he guessed, in her late forties, an ordinary woman who, even in grieving, would fade into faceless anonymity within a crowd. On the street she probably would not garner a moment’s attention from anyone at this time in her life, no matter the transitory beauties that might have graced her youth. Her womanly figure had thickened through time, making her appear more solid than she probably was. Her hair was very dark, that sort of uncompromising black which comes from a hasty application of inexpensive dye rather than from nature, and it lay unevenly against her skull. Her nylon dressing gown was wrinkled, printed with Chinese dragons that snarled across her bosom and down her hips. That the dressing gown, for all its garish design, was a possession holding meaning for Patsy Whateley was attested to by the fact that her green slippers had obviously been chosen in an unsuccessful attempt to match the dragons on the gown itself.
“Come in.” She reached for the sash of her dressing gown. “I look like…Not done much, you see…since…”
“Please. It’s fine, Mrs. Whateley.” Lynley sought to brush her words away. What did the poor woman think he expected from the mother of a child who’d just been found murdered? he asked himself. Haute couture? The idea was absurd, yet still, with one hand smoothing down a rucked seam, she seemed to be comparing her appearance with his, as if his tailored presence was somehow a derogation of her own. He felt distinctly uncomfortable and wished for the first time that he had thought far enough ahead to bring Sergeant Havers. Her working-class background and sartorial nonchalance would have eased them through the superficial difficulties created by his own blasted upper-crust accent and his Savile Row clothes.
The door admitted him directly into the cottage sitting room. It was sparsely furnished with a three-piece suite, a sideboard constructed of Formica-topped pressed wood, a
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