An Open Window, page 17
It was a long while before they were sure they dared to move him. I followed the stretcher to the ambulance and asked where they were taking him. Mary had had time to recover, and had thrown a cardigan round her shoulders. The ambulance man asked no questions, simply reached down a hand and hauled her up.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I said. I wasn’t sure she heard. They were fixing a drip. Something clear.
I went back and switched off the Volvo’s headlights, then, in the sudden blank darkness, fumbled my way round the house until I saw the light from the kitchen window. I sat at the table, then got up to put the kettle on to make a mug of coffee. While it was coming to the boil I went back outside and fumbled in the dark until I found my jacket. With it back in the light, I could see I wasn’t going to be wearing it again before it was cleaned. Perhaps not even then.
I had a quiet smoke over a mug of strong, black coffee with plenty of sugar in it, then I went up to Donald’s room. The thrum in my head was easing.
Go into the next room, and you’d find very little evidence of my presence. It was the same in his. The difference was that mine was just what I’d happened to bring with me. In Donald’s, it was probably the sum total of his possessions.
There was the bottom half of a pair of pyjamas neatly folded on his pillow. Mary’s work, that. They were pristine clean. Mary again. On the bedside table, a comb. In the drawer of it, nothing. In the wardrobe, nothing. He had it all in a kitbag. I turned this out on the bed. A spare pair of shoes, two pairs of socks, which Mary would have loved to get her hands on, or perhaps not. Two cotton sweatshirts. A pair of tatty jeans. A few pieces of underwear. A shaving kit. And nothing else. No wallet. He wasn’t the sort of man to carry a wallet. Everything would be tucked away in pockets, and unfortunately most of his pockets had gone with him to the hospital.
I tried the jeans. They had two of those tight front pockets put in them, so as not to spoil the line. As I wasn’t wearing them, I could just get my fingers in. One was empty, apart from a flattened portion of cigarette that didn’t smell like tobacco. In the other there was a cut-out portion of newspaper wrapped round a visiting card, printed in embossed gold.
I unwrapped the cutting. The card read:
AMOS P. LUCAS
PERSONAL FINANCE
There was an address in Birmingham.
I turned it over. On the back, in pencil, was printed:
30 + 6 = 36 – 2 = 34 + 6.8 = 40.8 – 1 = 39.8 + 8 = 47.8
This had been scribbled through, but I could still just make it out. I slipped it into my back pocket, and opened the cutting. It read:
CARAVAN TRAGEDY
Mystery surrounds the sudden explosion of a caravan on the site at Pentried Farm yesterday. A woman was killed instantly. Eyewitnesses state that the explosion occurred the moment she entered her caravan. Mrs Ivy Staines of Shrewsbury told our reporter that she knew there would be a tragedy on this plot, as it is numbered 13. She made an impassioned plea for its number to be changed to 12A.
The police are investigating the cause of the blast, and are concentrating on the theory that gas was involved.
There the cutting ended. Across it was printed in red ballpoint:
WESTERN EVENING STAR 30 AUGUST.
I knew, then, why the family, even though informed of the changed will by Walter, had nevertheless been shocked to the core when the will was read. They had believed that Amelia was dead.
As I stood there in that cold room—it had not seemed so cold when I entered—I realised that there could no longer be any possible doubt that the death of Nancy Rafton had been intended for Amelia. Walter had discovered our whereabouts, and so had someone else. Action had been taken, but had gone astray. The murderer had not realised this, and had bought copies of the following evening’s local newspaper, sufficient copies to cover the interested parties, to each of whom a copy had been sent. That would be the logical action. But did that eliminate Donald? Not necessarily. Although it wouldn’t be necessary to send one to yourself, it would still be a good policy to retain one…oh ye gods, I thought, of course it would. Essential, in fact, as an insurance policy.
The room seemed even more cold. I went down to the kitchen. There was room to pace.
The murderer would have to retain a copy for himself/herself, in case one of the others said: have you received one of these? It would be necessary to be able to answer yes, and produce it. In that way, a surface polish of innocence would be preserved. No one would know who, in fact, had done it.
Done what? I asked myself. Done what, Richard, damn it? Killed Walter, that’s what. Killed Nancy Rafton, and then Walter. Never mind the locked door and the dog. Killed Walter. Because, the moment that cutting was circulated, with its terse, but incorrect message that Amelia was dead, it had become open season on Walter Mann. Let him change his will, but get him before he discovered for himself that Amelia was apparently dead, because he might then leave everything to Sheba’s friends, the dogs’ home. Kill him before he could do anything rash, and his family would again be the beneficiaries.
They had each known, those who were intimately interested, that this had to be done, and done it was. But they would not know, those of the innocent heart, which one of them had rounded it off by removing Walter. They would eye each other askance, and wonder, and never be certain to whom they owed their warmest thanks. Until the reading of the will! And there I’d been, at first a worrying mystery, but then, shockingly, the bearer of tidings that Amelia was not dead. Then…what price the warm thanks? The fury and the despair and the frustration would be levelled at the stupid bugger who’d set out to kill Amelia, and killed someone else, thus provoking the death of Walter at exactly the wrong time.
Yet still they would not know which one to blame.
Almost, I could feel sorry for them. But the chill had seeped right through to my bones, and all I could feel was that I wanted them to suffer, as Donald was now suffering. Yet he could well be the one. This thought held me. Donald’s suffering gave me no pleasure. On the contrary. I had spent thirty years trying to prevent half the population from inflicting suffering on the other half, or failing that, handing them over to the courts to punish. I had never wished to inflict pain.
It was a shock to discover that now I did. I was uncomfortable with it, like trying to wear someone else’s suit. It was part of the syndrome I’d already shied from: the loss of my confidence and self-esteem. Now I was surrendering it, in a cold anger I could not dispel with immediate violence.
Angry now with myself, alone and brooding and with Amelia 150 miles away, I stumped out to the Volvo, completely forgetting to put off the house lights and lock up, and drove with fierce determination to the hospital. I had to show my concern, display it, as Mary had not displayed her grief. But Mary had felt her grief, and no display had been necessary. I felt nothing but an emptiness. By the time I parked the car my contempt for myself was assuming grand proportions. My display was shoddy.
I found Mary in the waiting room of Casualty, along with a great number of other waiters. It had been a fruitful night. I sat beside her.
‘Any news?’
She shook her head. There was a livid bruise on the left side of her forehead, and in the morning that eye would be black. I wondered whether anyone had taken a look at it. Ladies of her age are susceptible to violence. I told her I’d go and ask for news, and went looking for the senior staff nurse, but before I could find her a policeman intercepted me. I should have remembered that hospitals are required to report such cases.
‘Would you be Mr Patton, sir?’
I nodded, and he took me into a reasonably quiet corner. After I’d given full details of what I knew, but omitting any mention of where I thought the two heavies might be found, he snapped his notebook shut and offered what he knew himself.
Donald had a broken rib and a right arm fractured in three places. There was a possibility that he’d lose the sight of one eye, and an ear had nearly been torn free. There was no fracture of the skull, fortunately, but all the same he would be kept under observation. He was still unconscious, and was expected to remain so for at least twelve hours.
The policeman went away, but nevertheless I went to the office and spoke to the senior nurse there. I’m not up on the colours, so I didn’t know her rank. I asked whether anyone had looked at Mary Pinson.
‘The lady beneath the poster on meningitis?’
‘That’s her.’
‘We’re keeping an eye on her.’
‘To see she doesn’t doze off?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Can I take her home?’
Her quiet, dark eyes considered me. ‘It would be better if you didn’t. Just let her sit there quietly.’
‘I’ll come again in the morning.’
She touched my arm as I turned away. ‘He’s not going to die, you know.’
I smiled and nodded my thanks and went back to Mary, rehearsing an edited version in my head of Donald’s injuries. I wasn’t sure she took it all in.
‘I’ll take you home,’ I said.
‘No.’ Her pursed lips were stubborn.
‘All right. Then I’ll come back later.’ It was no good saying: the morning. It was all one to her.
She tried to smile, and I left her. Believing that staying was her own idea, she would at least not be worried on her own account.
I was nearly at the door when I remembered something. It was a bit of a shock. Sheba! Where had Sheba been? I went back to Mary.
‘Where was Sheba, Mary?’ I asked. Where is she? I wondered.
Not—please not—lying under a hedge with her ribs caved in!
She smiled at my anxiety. ‘Oh…Clare’s got her. She came this afternoon and said she’d at least take the dog.’
‘She had no right.’
‘I didn’t feel like arguing.’
‘Of course not. Now…get something to eat, Mary.’ Something else I’d forgotten! ‘Can I get you some coffee?’
She shook her head, and reached out to touch my hand. ‘You get back, and get some sleep.’
At last I got away. Out in the car park I found Melrose leaning against my car.
‘It gets around,’ I said.
‘They keep me informed. Is it bad?’
‘Didn’t they tell you? Only as bad as two pairs of boots could make it.’
He thought about that for a moment. ‘Any ideas?’
I answered indirectly. ‘Tomorrow, I could find use for a tough young constable, preferably off-duty and unmarried.’
‘It’s like that, is it? I can’t say I approve.’
‘To watch my back.’
‘It’s not my patch,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the field. Only one chap I might recommend. Me.’
I stepped back and considered him, lounging casually against my paintwork. ‘Somebody with more weight.’
‘I’m a mover. Pick me up at The Dun Cow?’ he asked. ‘It’s all muscle, what you can see.’
‘Around ten?’
‘Fine.’
I drove back to The Beeches to get what sleep I could fit in, which turned out to be four hours, as I was woken by the phone.
Even so far away downstairs, its ring penetrated my subconscious, which translated it into an alarm clock. I knew I had no chance of reaching it before it cut off, and I was correct. It was just after eight-thirty. Ruffling my hair, disturbed by uncertainty as to who might be ringing me so early, thus suggesting an emergency, I went into the kitchen and brewed tea, preparatory to a wash and clean-up and a shave.
It caught me again with shaving cream on my face, but this time I got to it.
‘Richard Patton,’ I gasped.
‘This is Paul Mann, Mr Patton.’
‘Did you call me earlier?’
‘Yes. I wanted to ask—’
‘For God’s sake, at half past eight?’
‘We start at that time at the factory, you know.’ He said it with a hint of severity.
I was relieved, and noted he’d pounced on his phone the moment he’d reached his desk.
‘I was up very late. Sorry.’
There was acid in his voice. ‘Celebrating, no doubt.’
‘No cause to celebrate, I can assure you. Haven’t you heard about Donald?’
There was a pause while he decided on his attitude. In the end, his voice was cautious, but with an overtone of distant alarm.
‘What about him?’
I told him about Donald. All the details. He was breathing heavily as I spoke. When I’d finished, he said: ‘The damned fool.’
‘In what way has he been foolish?’
‘I knew it would come to something serious. Money, of course.’ He spoke with distaste.
‘He came to you, did he?’
‘I’m tired of giving him hand-outs. He never had any idea of how to run a business. Now it’s come to this.’
‘Yes.’
He paused a decent five seconds. ‘I thought we ought to get together, Mr Patton. I’d like to show you the production lines…’ And so on, and so on. I listened impatiently, the drying cream beginning to flake off my chin.
He was going all formal on me, having faced the facts as they were and realised he was going to have to live with them. He resented the fact that Chad had got in before him in the buttering-up act, but was now prepared to concede a point or two and admit to my existence.
In the end, I cut in impatiently. ‘We’ll certainly have to do that, Paul. Can I give you a ring? I’m rather busy today.’
‘Oh yes. Fine. Great. I’ll be waiting.’
Then, because he hadn’t asked, I told him where Donald was, including the phone number, in case he might arouse an interest in his brother’s welfare. He thanked me, and rang off.
While I had the phone in my hand I rang the hospital myself. There was an improvement. They don’t admit that, unless it’s distinct. I said I’d be along.
After a quick breakfast I drove fast for the hospital, where Mary was miraculously still awake, and considerably more optimistic. Donald had recovered consciousness and she’d been to see him, and he’d recognised her and spoken a few words. Mary was now prepared to return home.
There, I sat her at her table and banged on the kettle, rattled the teapot, crashed down the mug, sugar bowl and milk jug, all as she would like it, and said: ‘Can I leave you to brew it?’
‘You’re going out?’
‘Urgent business, Mary. I’ll expect to find you in bed, when I get back.’
‘You will not, you know.’
I grinned at her, and went to find Melrose at The Dun Cow. I was only half an hour late.
16
‘D’you know Birmingham?’ he asked, as we drove into the outskirts.
‘No. Do you?’
‘I’m a native of Birmingham. When you told me the address…’
Which I’d done as we’d driven out of Boreton. ‘Yes?’
‘I very nearly asked to get out. To phone for reinforcements,’ he explained.
‘As bad as that, is it?’
‘Shall we say, if you leave this car parked outside, you’ll be lucky if it isn’t stripped when we come out.’
‘So what d’you suggest?’
‘We leave it at the nearest nick, and walk. Possibly half a mile.’
‘Right. We’ll do that.’
This we did, and without the car I felt naked. It was that sort of district. There was nothing visible that indicated we weren’t safe on those naked streets, but I had an uneasy feeling of being observed, though the streets were strangely empty. Our feet rang hollowly. His feet rang—I was wearing soft heels. I realised he was walking in heavy shoes, heels and toes tipped with steel. He had drawn on string-backed driving gloves, and beside me he was striding with a spring to his gait that I hadn’t previously noted. He had the poised tension of expectancy, and it was visible. Perhaps this was the idea, broadcasting his awareness. Perhaps it was he who was making me uneasy, infesting the district with aggression as we moved through it.
‘Doesn’t look as though there’d be money around here,’ I said. ‘You don’t see rats till you disturb them.’
The streets consisted of rows of crumbling terraces, their mullioned bay windows rotting, their doors askew and often ajar, their glass now more often hardboard or planks, roughly nailed in place. We were looking for number 257.
It appeared to be like the others. The door was open into a tiled, narrow hall, reasonably clear of gusted litter, with stairs to one side, uncarpeted. The address on the card had been: third floor. We mounted, me in front because this was my scene. Now Melrose was managing to step quietly. On the third floor we had a choice of four doors, but only one carried a replica of the visiting card, thumb-tacked to the peeling surface. I pushed it open.
There was a genuine receptionist, her desk almost masking the ancient rusted iron fireplace. She was sharp and polished, like stainless steel. She smiled, her teeth honed to a cutting edge.
‘Good morning.’
Beyond the eyeshadow and mascara her eyes were wary, in spite of the welcome, which had been automatic. Visitors did not normally arrive in pairs.
I nodded to the door beyond her. ‘Is he in?’
‘Yes, but he’s…’ Her fingers slid towards the phone. Melrose’s hand appeared under my elbow and his fingers clamped on her wrist. ‘Is there a ladies?’
‘The gents is along…’
‘For you, ducks. Go there. Lock yourself in. Do yourself a favour.’
Without apparent effort he drew her round the desk. ‘Scat!’ he said, and slapped her bottom. She scuttled from the room.
For a second I paused at the inner door. There were voices. I held up my fingers. Three of them. Melrose nodded. I opened the door and we went in.
This inner office was more impressive. An attempt had been made towards a veneer of class. Lucas’s desk was of polished rosewood. It supported three phones, two probably dummies. In front of him was a nested set of in-trays, one on top of the other. Requests for his financial assistance were clearly overwhelming him. His steel filing cabinets gave an impression of containing secret records of hundreds of gentry he’d satisfied in the past. The small safe against the wall behind him was so placed as to be well in sight. It could conceivably contain cash money. His smile told me he was only too eager to part with some of it. There could’ve been nothing sweeter than that welcoming smile, nothing so sour as it twisted, as he realised that something was wrong.
