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СКАЧАТЬ my opinion that despite his calling as a fascist instrument of proletarian oppression he was a nice man.

      ‘Is your mother coming with us?’ he asked, attempting to wipe his coat with his handkerchief and making a worse mess.

      ‘I’m afraid not. She’s – having an operation.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He looked so concerned that I almost told him the truth. ‘What about your brother and sisters?’

      ‘Cordelia’s coming. Portia’s still away, Bron’s got a – business appointment and Ophelia, my eldest sister, isn’t well.’

      Just as I said that the front door opened and Ophelia came down the front steps. Even by the light of the streetlamp, which was refracted into a halo by the excessive moisture in the air, she looked stunning. She was wearing a white wool coat, a diaphanous silver scarf and a black Juliet cap. The fairy-tale romance of her appearance was exaggerated by her golden hair, which was knotted loosely behind her head and tumbled down her shoulders in elegant waves, like the youngest of three princesses, who is always the most virtuous and kind-hearted. Ophelia shrank back from Derek’s overtures.

      ‘For God’s sake, don’t let that bloody animal near me.’ She ignored the inspector. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Peregrine Wolmscott. I can’t stand another minute in that depressing house of horrors. Woe, woe, woe! All those ghastly flower arrangements – nobody cheerful to talk to. As for Maria-Alba, she’s sinking so fast into depression, I think she’s going to have to go in for another sizzle.’ She meant the electroconvulsive therapy that Maria-Alba so hated and feared.

      ‘It’s awfully early for dinner.’ I looked at my watch. It was not yet six. ‘Do come with me and see Pa.’

      ‘I thought I’d go to a news cinema and cheer myself up watching the Libyans blasting one another to bits.’

      ‘I’d be grateful if you’d give me a few minutes of your time.’ Inspector Foy looked gravely at Ophelia and I longed to explain to him that she only talked like that because she was unhappy.

      ‘You are …?’ Ophelia turned her eyes towards him for the first time with her most crushing look of boredom and indifference, which she had spent years perfecting.

      The inspector reacted only by the merest contraction of his eyebrows. ‘If you’ll just step inside, Miss Byng. It shouldn’t take long.’

      ‘As I just said, I’m going out.’ She turned to walk away but the inspector made a sign to Sergeant Tweeter, who placed his large bulk in her path.

      ‘Don’t let’s play games, Miss Byng.’ The inspector looked very calm. ‘My time is valuable. I want to speak to all the members of Mr Byng’s family. I can interview you at the police station if you prefer.’ He nodded towards the car and Sergeant Tweeter took a step forward and opened the door.

      ‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Ophelia gave a contemptuous laugh.

      ‘You’ll look less ridiculous if you come with me into the house of your own free will.’

      ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

      ‘The choice is yours.’

      Something in the inspector’s face persuaded Ophelia, for once, to capitulate. She flounced up the steps to the front door and stalked in ahead of us. I went down to the kitchen. Maria-Alba had just finished making the strozzapreti.

      ‘Is there anything for Derek to eat?’ I asked. ‘I’m going to creep out to the police car. Probably he won’t whine if he’s got food. Where’s Cordelia?’

      ‘She watch the television. Sì, I give him the faraona from lunch and the bones of the coscetto d’abbachio we have for dinner.’

      This was one of her specialities, a boned leg of lamb stuffed with onions, liver, sage and pearl barley, delicious but bloatingly rich. Evidently Cordelia had forgotten to give her my message. She opened the fridge door and Derek gave little shivering growls of anticipation. ‘Sausages!’ I heard Maria-Alba mutter. ‘Cos’altro! Dio ci scampi e liberi!’

      I had collected Cordelia from the television in the coal-hole and my hand was on the front door when Derek gave voice to several ear-splitting bars of painfully high notes, like an amateur Queen of the Night. I could hear Ophelia’s voice in the drawing room, though not what she was saying. I heard her laugh scornfully. Cordelia and I sat in the car with Sergeant Tweeter and I tried not to worry. Five minutes later Inspector Foy ran down the steps and got into the front passenger seat. ‘All right, Sergeant.’ He sounded almost savage. ‘Let’s not dawdle. We haven’t got all night.’

      Cordelia and I exchanged glances. It seemed that Ophelia had, after all, won the encounter. I could detect anger in the tilt of the inspector’s head. Even the bristles on his neck seemed to express a contained fury. No one said anything until we drew up outside a massive, red-brick Victorian gateway that was closed to the world by giant wooden doors. The inspector showed something to the uniformed man at the wicket, who looked carefully at each of our faces before he pressed a button that opened the huge gates and waved us through.

      We stood in the brilliantly lit courtyard and, selfishly, I wished myself far, far away. Our household gods, Beauty and Truth, were conspicuous by their absence. Lights shone between bars from curtainless windows in high walls. They illumined nothing but dirt and barrenness. A black van, with its engine running, filled the air with sickening fumes. Not a trace of starlight could penetrate the polluted haze that composed the square of dripping sky above. Not a skeleton leaf nor a straggling weed softened the concrete paving blocks below. Several men in shirtsleeves were brushing a tide of water towards gratings in the centre. I found out later that there were several details of prisoners appointed to this task throughout the day. The slop buckets in the cells, built for one man and occupied by three, were emptied in the mornings only. Not unreasonably the prisoners were unwilling to be confined at close quarters with a pail overflowing with excrement so they threw the contents out of the window. Truth, also, was reluctant to put in an appearance in this breeding ground of despondency. It seemed obvious to me that if one were weak, stupid or wicked before, one would undoubtedly be weaker, more stupid and more wicked after spending any length of time here.

      Inside, the shiny green paint of the corridors reflected the neon lighting with a glare that made me blink. There was a reek of disinfectant laced with urine and sweat that overlaid the smell of boiled greens. Every ten yards or so we stopped and the prison officer who was leading the way unlocked a gate in a grille that barred our path, then fastened it again behind us. I kept my eyes on the floor, which someone had washed with a dirty mop, leaving streaks of grime. I dreaded to see an eye glaring through one of the square peepholes that were in every door. I felt sick with horror at the prisoners’ plight and at the same time I was afraid of them. Surely those who are imprisoned can only feel violent hatred for those who are free? I was close to tears but anxious not to alarm Cordelia, who was walking ahead of me, lugging her cake in a plastic carrier. I had a ridiculous longing to hold the inspector’s hand but, thanks to Ophelia, he too was an enemy. Just as I thought this, he turned to look at me, said, ‘Are you all right?’ and winked.

      That brief instance of kindness was exactly what I needed. Panic subsided and I felt, if not calm, at least able to control myself. I was thankful that the door to the interview room was not locked. The idea of my brilliant, princely father caged, was intensely hurtful; I did not want to see it.

      He was standing by the window. It took a moment to realise that it was he. He was still wearing the borrowed СКАЧАТЬ