Well-Schooled in Murder - By Elizabeth George Page 0,22
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 single armless chair upholstered in brown and yellow plaid, and one long shelf running beneath the front windows. Two disparate collections sat upon this, one of stone sculptures and the other of teacups, both equally revealing.
Like any collection of art, the stone sculptures acted as a disclosure of someone's taste.
Nude women sprawled in unusual positions, their pointed breasts jutting into the air; couples entwined and arched in mock passion; nude men explored the bodies of nude women who received this attention with heads flung back in rapture. Rape of the Sabine women, Lynley thought, with the women apparently begging for abduction.
Sharing this shelf, the teacups bore inscriptions that identified them as souvenirs.
Gathered from holiday spots across the country, each sported a scene to identify its location and gold letters lest the image not be enough stimulus to the memory. Some of them Lynley could read from where he stood by the door.
Blackpool, Weston-Super-Mare, Ilfracombe, Skegness. Others were turned from him, but he could guess their origins from the scenes painted upon them. Tower Bridge, Edinburgh Castle, Salisbury, Stonehenge. They represented places, no doubt, that the Whateleys had taken their son, places whose association would pain them treacherously - when they least expected - for years to come. That was the nature of sudden death.
"Please sit...Inspector, is it?" Patsy nodded towards the couch.
"Yes. Thomas Lynley."
The sofa - blue vinyl - was covered with an old pink counterpane to protect it. Patsy Whateley removed this and folded it slowly, giving care to matching the corners and smoothing the lumps. Lynley sat.
Patsy Whateley did likewise, choosing the plaid chair and making sure that her dressing gown did not become disarranged. Her husband remained standing next to the stone fireplace.
This held an electric fire, but he made no move to light it, even though the room was uncomfortably cold.
"I can return in the morning," Lynley told them. "But it seemed wisest to me to begin working at once."
Patsy said, "Yes. At once. Mattie...I want to know. I must know." Her husband said nothing. His bleak eyes were on a picture of the boy that had pride of place on the sideboard.
Grinning like any brand new third former, Matthew had been photographed wearing his school uniform - yellow pullover, blue blazer, grey trousers, black shoes. "Kev..." Patsy sounded uncertain. It was clear that she wanted her husband to join them, clearer still that he had no intention of doing so.
"Scotland Yard will handle most of the case," Lynley explained.