c 7

"That's easy enough. Roberta adored Gillian. God knows why. Gillian was the great disaster in the family. She turned out quite wild. She drank and swore and ran around like mad, having the time of her life, off to a party in Whitby one night, out with some hellion God-knows-where the next. Picking up men and giving them a run for their money. Then one night, some eleven years ago, she left. And she never came back."

Lynley caught the word. "Left? Or disappeared?"

Stepha's body backed into the chair. One of her hands rose to her throat, but she stopped the gesture as if it were betraying her. "Left,"

she said fi rmly.

He went along. "Why?"

"I imagine because she was at odds with William. He was fairly straitlaced and Gillian was nothing if not after a good time. But Rich-ard—her cousin—could probably tell you more. The two of them were rather thick before he left for the fens."Stepha got to her feet, stretched, and walked to the door, where she paused. "Inspector,"she said slowly. Lynley looked up from the photograph, half-expecting her to say more about Gillian Teys. She hesitated. "Would you like…anything else tonight?"

The light from the reception area behind her cast a glow upon her hair. Her skin looked smooth and lovely. Her eyes were kind. It would be so easy. An hour of bliss. Impassioned acceptance. A simple, longed-for forgetting. "No, thank you, Stepha,"he made himself say.

The River Kel was a peaceful tributary unlike many of the rivers that debouched frantically from the hillsides down into the dales. Silently, it wended its way through Keldale, flowing past the ruined abbey on its way to the sea. It loved the village, treating it well, seldom overflowing in destruction. It welcomed the lodge to exist on its banks, splashed greetings onto the village common, and listened to the lives of the people who lived in the houses built at its very edge.

Olivia Odell had one of these houses, across the bridge from the lodge, with a sweeping view of the common and of St. Catherine's Church. It was the finest home in the village, with a lovely front garden and a lawn that sloped down to the river.

It was still early morning when Lynley and Havers pushed open the gate, but the steady wailing of a child, coming from behind the house, told them that the inhabitants were already up and about. They followed the grief-stricken ululation to its source.

On the back steps of the house sat the youthful mourner. She was huddled in a ball of woe, head bent to her knees, a crumpled magazine photograph beneath her grubby shoes. To her left sat her audience, a solemn male mallard who watched her sympathetically. Upon her head was the ostensible source of her grief, for she'd cut her hair—or rather somebody had— and had plastered it onto her skull with grease. It once had been red and, from the look of the locks escaping their confi nement, decidedly curly. But now, giving off the malodourous waft of cheap pomade, it was nothing but dreadful to behold.

Havers and Lynley exchanged a look. "Good morning,"the inspector said pleasantly. "You must be Bridie."

The child looked up, grabbing the photograph and clutching it to her chest in a motherly gesture. The duck merely blinked.

"What's wrong?"Lynley asked kindly.

Bridie's defiant posture was completely deflated at the gentle sound of the tall man's voice. "I cut my hair!"she wailed. "I saved my money to go to Sinji's but she said she couldn't make my hair go this way and she wouldn't cut it so I cut it myself and now look at me and Mummy's crying as well. I tried to straighten it all out with this stuff of Hannah's but it'll never come right!"She hiccupped pathetically on the last word.

Lynley nodded. "I see. It does look a bit awful, Bridie. Exactly what sort of effect were you going after?"He quailed inwardly at the thought of Hannah's black spikes.

"This!"She waved the photograph at him, wailing anew.

He took it from her and looked at the smiling, smooth coiffured semblance of the Princess of Wales, elegant in black evening gown and diamonds, not a hair out of place. "Of course,"he muttered.

Bereft of her picture, Bridie took comfort in the presence of her duck, slinging an arm round him and pulling him to her side. "You don't care, Dougal, do you?"she demanded of the bird. In reply, Dougal blinked and investigated Bridie's hair for its edible propensities.

"Dougal the Duck?"Lynley enquired.

"Angus McDougal McDuck,"Bridie responded. The formal introduction made, she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her tattered pullover and looked fearfully over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she went on. "An' he's hungry. But I can't go inside to get his food. All I got's these marshmallows. They're all right for a treat, but his real food's inside and I can't go in."

"Why not?"

"'Cause Mummy said she didn't want to see me again till I'd done something about my hair and I don't know what to do!"The child began to cry again, real tears of anguish. Dougal would apparently starve—an unlikely prospect, considering his size—unless some quick thinking were applied to the situation.

It appeared, however, that a plan of attack would be unnecessary, for at that moment the back door was jerked open angrily. Olivia Odell took one look at her daughter—her second only that day—and burst into tears.

"I can't believe you would do it! I just can't believe it! Get in the house and wash your hair!"Her voice rose higher with each word, climbing the peak to hysteria.

"But Dougal—"

"Take Dougal with you,"the woman said, weeping. "But do as I say!"The duck was scooped into nine-year-old arms and the two offenders disappeared. Olivia tugged a tissue from the pocket of her cardigan, blew her nose, and smiled shakily at the two adults. "What a dreadful scene,"she said. But as she spoke she began to cry again and walked into the kitchen, leaving them standing at the open back door. She stumbled to the table and buried her face in her hands.

Lynley and Havers looked at each other and, decision made, entered the house.

Unlike Gembler Farm, there was not the slightest doubt that this house was lived in. The kitchen was in total disarray: the stove top cluttered with pots and pans, appliances gaping open to be cleaned, flowers waiting to be put into water, dishes piled in the sink. The floor was sticky under their feet, the walls badly needed paint, and the entire room reeked with the charcoal bouquet of burnt toast. The offending source of this odour was lying on a plate, a sodden black lump that looked as if it has been hastily extinguished by a cup of tea.

Beyond the kitchen, what little they could see of the sitting room indicated that its condition was much the same. Housekeeping was certainly not Olivia Odell's strong point. Neither was child rearing, if the morning's confrontation were any indication.

"She's out of my control!"Olivia wept. "Nine years old and she's out of my control!"She tore the tissue to shreds, looked dazedly about for another, and, seeing none, cried harder still.

Lynley removed a handkerchief from his pocket. "Take this,"he offered.

"Ta,"she responded. "Oh my God, what a morning!"She blew her nose, dried her eyes, ran her fingers through her brown hair, and looked at her reflection in the toaster. She moaned when she saw herself, and her bloodshot brown eyes filled again but didn't spill over. "I look fifty years old. Wouldn't Paul have laughed!"And then disjointedly, "She wants to look like the Princess of Wales."

"So she showed us,"Lynley responded impassively. He drew a chair out from the table, picked the newspapers off of it, and sat down. After a pause, Havers did likewise.

"Why?"Olivia asked, directing the question more to the ceiling than to her companions. "What have I done that my daughter believes the key to happiness is to look exactly like the Princess of Wales?"She squeezed her fingers into her forehead. "William would have known what to do. What a mess I am without him."

Wishing to avoid a fresh onslaught of tears, Lynley spoke quickly to divert her. "Little girls always have someone they admire, don't they?"

"Yes,"Olivia said. "Oh yes, how true that is."She'd begun twisting his handkerchief into an appalling little rope. Lynley winced as he saw it mangled. "But I never seem to have the right thing to say to the child. Everything I try seems to end in hysterics. William always knew what to say and do. Whenever he was here, everything went smoothly. But the moment he was gone, we'd begin to fi ght like cats and dogs! And now he's really gone! What's to become of us?"She didn't wait for an answer. "It's her hair. She hates having red hair. She's hated it ever since she learned to speak. I can't understand it. Why is a nineyear-old girl so damned passionate about her hair!"

"Redheads,"Lynley noted, "are generally passionate about everything."

"Oh, that's it! That's it! Stepha's quite the same. You'd think Bridie was her clone, not her niece."She drew in a breath and sat up in her chair. Footsteps came running down the hall. "Lord, give me strength,"Olivia murmured.

Bridie entered the room, a towel wrapped precariously round her head, her pullover— which she hadn't bothered to remove in her haste to obey her mother's instructions—thoroughly soaked round her shoulders and down most of her back. She was followed by her duck, who walked like a seaman, with a peculiar rolling gait.

"He's crippled,"Bridie announced, noticing Lynley's inspection of the fowl. "When he swims, he jus' goes round in a big circle, so I don't let him swim unless I'm there. We took him swimming lots last summer, though. In the river. We made a dam just outside and he had ever so much fun. He'd plunk himself in the water and go round and round. Huh, Dougal?"The mallard blinked his agreement and searched on the floor for something to eat.

"Here, let me see you, MacBride,"her mother said. The daughter came forward, the towel was removed, the damage was surveyed. Olivia's eyes welled with tears again above her daughter's head. She bit her lip.

"Looks like it just needs a bit of a trim,"Lynley interposed hastily. "What do you think, Sergeant?"

"A trim ought to do it,"Havers agreed.

"I think the thing to do, Bridie, is to give up on the Princess of Wales idea. Now,"Lynley added as the child's bottom lip trembled, "you've got to remember that your hair is curly. Hers is quite straight. And when Sinji told you that she couldn't make it go in that style, she was telling you the truth."

"But she's so pretty,"Bridie protested. Tears threatened once again.

"She is. Absolutely. But it would be a fairly strange world if every woman were exactly like her, wouldn't it? Believe me, there are many women who are very pretty and look nothing like her."

"There are?"Bridie gave a longing glance to the crumpled photograph again. A large smear of grease was sitting on the Princess's nose.

"You can believe the inspector when he says that, Bridie,"Havers added, and her tone implied the rest: He's a bit of an expert on the subject.

Bridie looked from woman to man, sensing undercurrents that she didn't understand. "Well,"she announced, "I s'pose I got to feed Dougal."

The duck, at least, looked as if he approved.

The Odell sitting room was only a slight improvement over the kitchen. It was hard to believe that one woman and one child could produce such disarray. Clothes lay piled over chairs as if mother and daughter were in the process of moving; knickknacks perched in unlikely positions on the edges of tables and window sills; an ironing board was set up in what looked like permanent residence; an upright piano spat sheet music onto the fl oor. It was havoc, with dust so thick that it gave the air fl avour.

Olivia appeared to be unaware of the mess as she absently gestured them towards seats, but she looked about as she took her own and sighed in unembarrassed resignation. "It's usually not this bad. I've been…it's been…"She cleared her throat and shook her head as if to get her thoughts in order. Once again the fingers went through the wispy, windblown-looking hair. It was a girlish gesture, oddly incongruous in a woman who so plainly was no longer a girl. She had paper-fi ne skin and delicate features, but the ageing process was not dealing with her kindly. She was lined and, although thin, her flesh lacked resiliency, as if she had lost too much weight too quickly. Bones jutted from her cheeks and wrists.

"You know,"she said suddenly, "when Paul died, it wasn't this bad. I can't come to grips with what's happened to me over William."

"The suddenness,"Lynley offered. "The shock."

She nodded. "Perhaps you're right. My husband Paul was ill for several years. I had time to prepare myself. And Bridie, of course, was too young to understand. But William…"She made an effort at control, fixing her eyes on the wall, sitting up tall. "William was such a presence in our lives, such a strength. I think we both started to depend on him and then he was gone. But it's selfish of me to be reacting like this. How can I be so awful when there's Bobba to consider?"

"Roberta?"

She glanced at him, then away. "She always came here with William."

"What was she like?"

"Very quiet. Very nice. Not an attractive girl. Heavy, you know. But she was always very good to Bridie."

"Her weight caused a problem between Richard Gibson and his uncle, though, didn't it?"

Olivia's brow furrowed. "A problem? How do you mean?"

"Their argument over it. At the Dove and Whistle. Will you tell us about it?"