Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

Fiona went home twice just to check he hadn’t come back in the meantime. She returned to the Jarveys twice, by now shaking with fear. It was past ten. If that man’s somewhere with another woman, thought Michelle, I’ll find some way to punish him. Never mind his teaching me to slim, that was me, not him. I didn’t have to take notice of what he said, but I will make life hard for him if he’s betrayed her. I will find him and tell him what I think of him. I will set a private detective on his track, I will . Her unaccustomed vindictiveness alarmed her, and she forced herself to give Fiona an encouraging smile. Should she make tea? Another drink? Fiona stood up and threw herself into Michelle’s arms. Michelle hugged her and patted her shoulder, and held her against her big, soft bosom while Matthew phoned the Royal Free and the Whittington, and half a dozen other hospitals. Then he phoned the police.

They knew nothing about a Jeff Leigh. Matthew spelled the name for them.

“You said Leigh, not Leach?”

“No, Leigh.”

“There’s been no accident to anyone of that name.”

For by now they knew whose was the body they had on their hands. In the breast pocket of its linen jacket they found a bloodstained driving license in the name of Jeffrey John Leach, of 45 Greta Road, Queen’s Park, London NW10. It had been issued nine years ago and a long time before new British driving licenses were required to contain their holder’s photograph. Also in the pocket were a photograph, in a plastic pack, of a long-haired young man with a baby in his arms, a bloodstained letter from a woman called Zillah, a door key of a common kind and unnumbered, £320 in £20 and £10 notes, a Visa card in the name of Z. H. Leach, and a half-used packet of Polo mints.

It took no more than a few hours to establish that Jeffrey John Leach was married to Sarah Helen Leach, née Watling, who also had a driving license and lived at an address in Long Fredington, Dorset.

ARRIVING IN HIS parliamentary constituency late on Friday afternoon, Jims had first had a meeting with his agent, Colonel Nigel Travers-Jenkins, and then, accompanied by him, gone as guest of honor and principal speaker to the annual gala dinner of the South Wessex Young Conservatives at the Lord Quantock Arms in Markton. Contrary to Zillah’s belief, Leonardo wasn’t with him. While he was speaking, on the subject of the Party’s future hope and inspiration being in the hands of its youth, whose idealism and fervor had already been manifested to him that evening, Zillah was sitting in the Abbey Gardens flat watching a Rugrats video with the children, Jordan grizzling on her lap.

Jims, who had been casually fond of her for years, had always used her rather as a screen for his natural activities than as a friend. She was the kind of woman whose appearance led the South Wessex Conservatives to put her down as a female of loose morals. Any Fredingtonian seeing him call at Willow Cottage, particularly in the evenings, believed-again in their phrase-the worst. But they were the sort of people who held to a double standard, condemning the woman in this situation but attaching no blame to the man. Rather the reverse, as Jims well knew, for someone had reported back to him that Colonel Travers-Jenkins had been overheard calling him “a bit of a lad with the birds.” For this reason, though he used her, he had always felt grateful to Zillah and persuaded himself this was affection.

Now he was married to her he felt quite differently. She was a nuisance and, if not kept under surveillance, might damage his career. Jims thought about these things as he drove back to his house in Fredington Crucis. What a pity it was that once you’d been through a marriage ceremony, you had to live under the same roof as your bride! What a misfortune you couldn’t give her a lump sum and a little house somewhere, and never see her again! Still, he knew this was impossible. He must be married and manifestly be seen to be married. And his wife must be Caesar’s wife. There was no other way. When he got home on Monday morning he would set about educating Zillah in her duties as helpmeet to the Member for South Wessex. He would teach her about the boards and committees she must chair, the garden parties she must attend, the baby shows judge, Conservative Women’s gatherings address, the canvassing she must do, and the suitable clothes she must wear. No skirts above the knee, nothing low-cut, no sexy shoes, tight trousers-maybe no trousers at all-but afternoon dresses and big hats. A supposed mistress may look like a loose woman but not an MP’s wife.

Jims had phoned Leonardo and then gone to bed. In the morning he held his appointments at nine sharp in Casterbridge Shire Hall, where he made earnest promises to his constituents that he would personally improve the education of their children, the National Health Service, transport, and the environment, while undertaking to retain at all costs hunting with dogs. Jims didn’t say “dogs,” though that was the term that appeared in the title of the new bill proposed on the subject. To please the people in the Shire Hall he referred always to “hounds.” Talk of the hunt, a constant subject of conversation and discussion in South Wessex, reminded him that on Saturday evening he would be addressing the local branch of the Countryside Alliance at Fredington Episcopi village hall. The meeting would be so well attended that the largest hall in the neighborhood had been chosen as its venue.

His speech he had brought with him. It was still in his briefcase, which he hadn’t even opened while at Fredington Crucis House. In calling it a speech, Jims was rather underrating himself, for of course he had no intention of reading to the assembled members. But there were all sorts of details of a previous private member’s bill that he had noted down on paper, along with statistics, reports on research into cruelty to stags and stress levels in foxes, and, most important, assessments of the hardship which would be suffered by locals should hunting be banned in what Jims was careful to call “England” and occasionally “this blessed plot,” but never “the United Kingdom.” Also with his notes was the Burns Report in its dark blue cover, the findings of Lord Burns’s investigation into hunting. When he was leaving his office and was once more in his car, he opened his briefcase to check that he had it and his notes with him.

Jims intended to have lunch at the Golden Hind in Casterbridge with a close friend, the predecessor, in fact, of Leonardo. The decision to end their relationship had been mutual and there were no hard feelings. Moreover, Ivo Carew was chairman of a charity called Conservatives Target Cancer, so being seen with him could only win approval. But he couldn’t find his Countryside Alliance notes. He emptied everything out of the briefcase onto the passenger seat. He knew they weren’t there and he also knew very well where they were. Inside a transparent blue plastic folder that matched the cover of the Burns Report, and he would have spotted them at once. He knew they weren’t there and he knew where they were: in Leonardo’s house.

But precisely where? That he couldn’t remember. He did remember, though, that Leonardo had told him on the phone the evening before that he was taking Friday off and would be going to see his mother in Cheltenham. These visits were frequent and enjoyable, for Giulietta Norton, born in Rome just after the Second World War and a hippie and groupie in the sixties, was a fascinating woman and about as unlike a mother as could be. Leonardo might even decide to stay the night. Of course Jims had a key to the flat, that was no problem. Even if he could remember exactly where the blue folder was and could persuade one of Leonardo’s neighbors to let his messenger in, whom could he trust? Was there anyone he could rely on to go to Glebe Terrace, find the notes, and fax them to him, without thinking it funny, without thinking it suspicious that James Melcombe-Smith MP left important papers in the home of a young and very good-looking stock jobber? In, very probably, that young man’s bedroom? Zillah, perhaps. He called his home number on his mobile. No answer. In fact, Zillah, deeply asleep, heard the phone ringing in a dream about Jims changing his sexual orientation and falling in love with her. She thought the ringing was her mother and she ignored it.