Free Hard Going by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles Page B

Romantic friends, I mean.’
    ‘Not that I know of. Actually, I’ve always sort of subconsciously wondered if he was gay.’
    ‘How come?’
    ‘Oh, nothing tangible. Just the lack of lady friends, as you put it, and something about him as a person – you know, the bachelor life, the quaintness, the antiques, the nice clothes, fond of cooking, knew all about wines. Epicene – is that the word?’
    It could be the word for all Connolly knew. She thought about Atherton – there was something of that about him, especially the cooking and the clothes. But he wasn’t gay – far from it. If mattress surfing was an Olympic event, he could have represented Britain. No reason old Lionel should have been gay either. Love a God, could a man not own a spatula without his credentials being questioned?
    ‘Anything else?’ she asked.
    Mrs Shepherd thought about it. ‘He was terribly fond of the theatre. And very knowledgeable. He must have seen every play ever written. Loved his Shakespeare, even the ones nobody reads any more – you know, Coriolanus and so on. Loved Tom Stoppard, too, for the wordplay. He used to go a lot, I do know that. And he organized trips to the theatre for groups of his friends. I’ve been several times. He usually ended up paying for that, too.’
    ‘Why would that make him gay?’ Connolly asked, still processing curry o’ l’anus . What the feck was that?
    ‘Oh, it doesn’t, I didn’t mean that. But from the way he talked, he seemed to know quite a lot of actors personally, as well as the plays, so I put him down as a bit of a luvvie. It was just another piece of the jigsaw, you know.’
    Somewhere a bell rang. Mrs Shepherd made getting-up movements and said, ‘The hordes are about to descend on us. And I’ve got playground duty, God help me.’
    ‘Just one more question,’ Connolly said, wondering what it should be. She didn’t feel she’d got much further, but there seemed no way in to this man’s life. ‘Do you know one of Lionel’s friends called Nina?’
    ‘Nina? No, no I don’t think so.’ She paused in thought. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve ever met a Nina. Who is she?’
    ‘Apparently she telephoned him now and then, left a message with his housekeeper.’
    ‘Oh! The sinister Mrs Danvers,’ said Mrs Shepherd, with half a smile.
    ‘I think the name is Kroll, Mrs Kroll,’ Connolly corrected her.
    ‘I know, dear, it’s a reference,’ said Mrs Shepherd. ‘I shouldn’t take too much notice of what Mrs Kroll says, if I were you. I don’t think she’s very reliable. Several times when I’ve rung up and Lionel’s been out, I’ve left messages which she hasn’t passed on. And sometimes she’s simply refused to take a message. Lionel lets her have all too much rope, in my opinion. She’s the sort who takes advantage.’
    The door opened, and a knot of adults shot in as if expelled from the corridor like peas from a pea-shooter. ‘Tea!’ cried the front runner desperately. ‘Haven’t you put the kettle on, Molly? What have you been doing ?’
    Connolly made her escape so that the Shepherd could explain herself any way she liked. Calling a detective constable ‘dear’, the cheeky skanger ! she thought as she made her way down the corridors against the flow and bedlam of youthful humanity. It was like one of those nightmares where you can’t make any progress towards your goal. She suppressed a panicky feeling that she’d never get out.
    Slider sent Atherton for brains and McLaren for muscle on the Krolls Quest – it did sound a bit Dragons and Dungeons, that. Atherton was slightly offended at the idea that he might need McLaren, but Slider said he didn’t know what he might get into, and he didn’t want him suddenly having to send for back-up. McLaren did not look hefty, like Fathom, or powerful, like Gascoyne, but he had a whippy strength, was fast and hard and, since he possessed no imagination, fearless.
    Getting into the car beside him, Atherton winced