A Death to Remember (22 page)

‘
I’m into accounting now, you know.’

‘
You’re one of the associates?’

‘
There’s a lot of money in it.’

‘
He’s doing well,’ I observed. ‘So now you’re a business woman, Val. It suits you well. How long before we see the dark suit and the dickey-bow?’

‘
Sarcasm,’ she said, ‘will be your downfall.’

But
I’d retreated into it because of embarrassment. She had been appealing to me. This was not my affair, her personal relationship with Michael Orton. Perhaps she had discovered that my own refusal to use her money was more acceptable than Orton’s eagerness – as I had no doubt it would be – to use it. And her. But in a few seconds she would be asking my advice. Because I disliked him, it would be biased. Because I still liked her, it would be even more biased. And appealing to me might be a dangerous thing; I had a tendency to run away.

‘
Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I’m glad you’re keeping busy.’

Funny
about women. They’ll go on doing nothing for ages – the tea sat there cooling– and then they’ll do two things at once. She took up the tea pot in one hand, managing to fill both cups without spilling, while her other hand reached across and touched the back of my hand.

‘
I wish you’d let me help you, Clifford.’

I
avoided contact by reaching for the sugar. It embarrassed me that she seemed to be harried by her conscience. ‘You’re meeting Michael for lunch?’ I asked.

‘
No. Not today.’ Her voice was empty. I’d given her my answer; I could offer her nothing. ‘He’s had to stay in his office. Some interview with a person from your old place. He’s very upset about it.’

‘
Yes,’ I said. ‘People are.’

I
knew that Nicola intended to impound the books and take them away. Orton would be furious. Though, thinking about Nicola, I realised that it was he who had most to fear.

I
asked about the dog. She said he was fine. I shouldn’t have used him as a let-out, because it only made me sad that he was no longer with me. I asked about the house. Were they intending to move to somewhere larger?

She
grimaced. ‘We’re not intending to start a family.’

‘
I didn’t mean that.’

‘
Yet.’

‘
I meant grander. As suited the image.’

‘
Whose – mine or Michael’s?’

I
made a gesture. It was clear that we’d talked ourselves into a dead-end. I followed her outside, and we parted on the pavement. She put up her cheek and I kissed it. I felt I would never see her again.

Then
I went and stood outside Michael Orton’s office block, hoping that Val hadn’t got the timing wrong.

Nicola
came bouncing out of the revolving door, all energy and triumph. I stepped forward. ‘You got them, then?’

She
stopped, gripping the briefcase protectively. ‘Now...how did you know...’

‘
I’ve just been sharing a pot of tea with my ex-wife.’

She
absorbed that, dismissed it with one flicker of her eyelids, and was at once her normal self. ‘He was charming.’

‘
Told you, didn’t I.’

‘
Nothing like you described him.’

‘
Of course not. Now...just turn round and take them back.’

‘
What?’

‘
That charming man is probably, this second, phoning your manager to complain. And you know the trouble you could get in.’

This
wasn’t the full reason I wanted her out of it, but there wasn’t any point in bringing that up again.

She
tossed her head and made a sound of contempt. I almost smiled, but it wasn’t the right time. We were standing below Orton’s office window, and even if he’d been phoning, that would have finished by now. He was more likely to be looking down on us. I should have anticipated this possibility, and fumbled for actions or words that might make amends.

‘
Can’t you see it’s useless, Nicola? He took the books home, so you can’t imagine he’s left one tiny item unchecked.’

‘
We’ll see about that.’

‘
He knows, you see. The coincidence – I go round to see him, and then you serve him with a notice to produce. Can’t you just
feel
him laughing!’

‘
He’d better not.’

‘
I can feel it on the back of my neck. Oh...don’t look up. Don’t give him any more pleasure.’

‘
You might at least show some gratitude, damn it.’

‘
I
am
grateful. But what do you expect from it?’ I was overacting now, my gestures accentuated for Orton’s distant entertainment. ‘I don’t think I ever saw the insides of those books, so what memories can you expect?’

‘
It was you who did the expecting,’ she said angrily.

‘
I didn’t expect you to make a fool of yourself...’

‘
Damn you,’ she snapped, and she half turned away.

I
caught her elbow. ‘Well...isn’t that what you’re doing? I can almost hear him sniggering from here.’

She
shook herself free. Her eyes were blue ice when she raised them. ‘Do you want to see them or not?’ Each word was carefully and individually frozen.

‘
Oh sure...now you’ve taken the trouble.’

‘
What’s the matter with you? What’s got into you?’

‘
If the invitation’s still on...’

‘
By God, you’ve got a nerve.’ But her anger was faltering.

I
stood and looked at her, aware that she was at last beginning to realise why I was putting on the performance. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth twitched.

‘
Haven’t I!’ I agreed.

‘
Seven-thirty, then,’ she spat at me. ‘Marsha’s doing one of her paellas.’

‘
Marsha?’

‘
My flatmate.’

I
sneered, forgetting that a sneer wouldn’t be visible from up there. Suddenly her hand came across and she slapped me painfully on the cheek. Then she was off and away, hips swinging, head high, and I realised there’d been a little more than acting in the blow. I stood and watched until she disappeared in the crowd, standing appalled, as one does when slapped in the main square.

Orton
had not been watching from his window. As I turned, he came from the foyer door, striding across the pavement with one hand outstretched, pleasure shining all over his face. I didn’t know whether he’d seen any of it, or perhaps all. His pleasure was based on another facet of our relationship.

‘
Clifford! I thought it was you – saw you from my window. I’m glad I caught you.’

‘
Are you?’

I
was aware of that strong hand on my shoulder, squeezing it, a comradely gesture. But it didn’t make me happy.

‘
I wanted to apologise,’ he told me. ‘Damn it all, my behaviour was inexcusable. Here...have you got time to come up? We’ll have a drink.’

‘
That’s good of you...but...things to do.’

I
couldn’t understand him, didn’t really want to.

‘
Val really told me off,’ he explained. ‘You’re not a hundred per cent – I knew that. I should have allowed for it. But me...you know me, Clifford. Plunge in, not giving things a second thought. It’s
natural
you’d want to see those books. I understand. It was just a question of a jolt to your memory. And there was I, worrying you were going to involve yourself...’ He glanced to right and left. ‘There’s been murder, Clifford. You wouldn’t want to get involved.’

A
friendly, helpful and effusive Orton was worse than his usual self. ‘I certainly wouldn’t,’ I agreed, trying to edge away, but not too effectively in case I missed what he was getting to.

‘
So I’ve been through the books,’ he said blandly, his eyes wide with sincerity, ‘and there’s nothing. I’d show you, but that foolish young woman from your old office has taken them away. But I assure you...’ A double thump on the shoulder. ‘...there was nothing.’

‘
Nothing...what?’

‘
To connect you, Clifford. Nothing that’d warrant a bribe. Nothing giving you
any
reason for harming that poor young man, Peters. And as for Mrs Clayton...’ He pursed his lips, shaking his head. ‘You can relax, Clifford. You’re in the clear.’

My
throat seemed dry. I’d been panting to get free of him. ‘That’s very reassuring, Michael,’ I managed to say. ‘I do appreciate your concern. I really do.’

He
nodded. Thanks were accepted and docketed, though whether under debit or credit I couldn’t tell. ‘That’s all right. But, a tip, huh? I’d steer clear of Clayton if I were you, and well away from Pool Street Motors.’

‘
If you say so, Michael.’

‘
A word to the wise.’

‘
Sure.’

I
watched him march back into his office foyer. His word had not been to the wise, but to the wary. It’d been to a stubborn fool whose wisdom hadn’t been improved by a belting with a spanner. Tell Cliff Summers not to go somewhere, and there he’d head. But Orton might not realise that.

Besides,
I still hadn’t explained to Tony Clayton my full responsibility for Tessa’s death.

I
went for my car, which I’d left on the roof of the high-rise car park, but not quite prepared to drive away. I hated the thought of facing Clayton again, yet owed it to myself to defy Orton. He’d made it very clear that he’d left me nothing to see in the Pool Street Motors books. He’d enjoyed making it clear. That meant there was nothing left to see.

I
had an abrupt and urgent desire to get my hands on those books.

14

I was not going to be able to do that until seven-thirty. There was a lot of time to be filled in, and the obvious way to do that was to run round to Pool Street Motors, and from there to go on to hunt out Charlie Graham. I couldn’t feel enthusiastic about either.

Tony
Clayton wasn’t at his business premises. This I found to be a relief. For a few minutes I wandered round, having words with the mechanics in the back, who were a little confused as to the situation and doing no work to speak of. None of them knew Charlie Graham. I was wasting my time, and set off again, heading for the address I had for him, four miles out of town. Reluctantly. I was, take it simply, afraid to face what Graham might have to tell me.

To
the west of the town there had recently grown a new housing estate, a mixture of council and private. Scattered amongst it, a planner’s deliberate idea I’m sure, there were a few old country houses, left there for atmosphere. Most were converted into flats. In one of these houses Graham lived. Eventually, I set the car to the old road that led out to the estate, the town falling away behind me.

There
is a set-back parking area at the top. I drew in there and got out, trying to tell myself I didn’t need to meet Graham. It wasn’t doing me any good. I knew I had to.

I
stood and looked at the view, not appreciating it. A van drew in behind my car. I was aware that it was there, and glanced over my shoulder, getting the impression of a battered white Ford Transit. As it was less attractive than the view, I turned away again, and it was some time before I realised that I’d heard no sound from the van, no slamming of the door as the driver got out to stretch his legs. I turned and took another look, and had the distinct impression that I was being observed.

This
was absurd, I told myself. I was becoming paranoiac. Of course he wasn’t watching me. Why should anyone be interested in whether or not I visited Graham?

To
test this out, and prove I must be wrong, I strolled round the Escort to the driver’s seat.

Before
I reached it I heard his engine spring into life. Then I knew. It was too late, though, to put this knowledge into effect. I tried to jump free, because he was heading straight at me, and was going to get the Escort side on. His front offside wing caught at the cuff of my slacks and touched the heel of my shoe. It was enough to set me flying, over and over on the grass verge, trying to kill the roll before I reached a point where the slope eased over into a steeper fall. My nails dug into the turf as my feet kicked. I swung to a halt, lifting my head.

He
was backing off. He’d caught the front wing of the Escort, firmly swinging it so that it was nose down to the slope. I hadn’t, it seemed, put on the handbrake. I watched as it lurched, gained momentum, and trundled forward. On hands and knees I continued to watch, aware of the diesel clatter of the van’s idling engine. The Escort put down its nose and accelerated away down the slope, pitching and lurching, and finally dug its nose into a tree. The sound of the impact rolled back up to me. The rear wheels lifted, then settled.

I
waited for flames, but they did not come. It sat quietly, sad and collapsed. I looked away.

The
nose of the van was pointed directly at me. A foot revved the engine. I stared up from my ungainly position. Then hopelessly I glanced over my shoulder. There was retreat there if I cared to roll backwards and let myself go.

I
had not realised it, but by doing this I was pointing out to the driver that the slope behind me was a positive danger to himself too. I heard a gear grate home. The van ducked its nose, then backed away, swerving wildly. It headed back towards town.

Managing
to get to my feet, I looked around me. Lots of open space, with my Escort spoiling the idyllic beauty of the shallow valley, a stream trickling through it, undisturbed by the metallic intrusion. In each direction, the road was empty. Well, it would be, I supposed. This was the old road, the original access to the few scattered mansions. A new road had been laid when the estate became established.

I
stumbled down to look at the Escort. To me it looked like a write-off, chunks of metal protruding where metal should not have been. The impact had sprung one of the doors. Fortunately, I hadn’t had the car long enough to have cluttered it with possessions, but what there was I had to empty out. I plodded back up to the road with a fistful of maps and my gumboots.

I
waited, on the side of the road that would take me back to town. My actions were now dictated to me. I had to go to the garage and see Clayton. There was a question of insurance. There was also a question of what he had available to lend me, to keep me on the road.

The
first vehicle I saw was going the other way, coming from town. A blue Bedford van. I crossed over and waved, and he pulled in. I found I was in a position to report my accident at once, not simply that but also to display the evidence. Tony Clayton was driving that van.

From
his seat he stared at me bleakly. He’d have been excused if he’d simply driven away. Instead, almost wearily, he eventually got down and came over to me.

‘
What now?’

I
gestured down the slope. He grunted, stood with feet apart, hands on his hips, staring down at the wreck. It would seem to him that I’d simply driven off the road. The tilt of his head suggested that he wasn’t at all surprised.

‘
I was coming to see you about it,’ I told him.

He
shook his head with professional doubt. ‘Need a winch to pull that out.’

‘
I meant about the insurance.’

‘
Well...I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘
The policy for the Volvo’ll cover it...’

‘
Dunno about that, do I?’

‘
...I’d have thought. What d’you mean, you don’t know!’

‘
We’d better contact the insurers.’

‘
The small print fiddle, I suppose?’ I said in disgust.

He
turned to me, grinning, his teeth tight together and no humour in it. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised.’

He
was enjoying it. He was pleased to find himself enjoying it, aware that in a small way he found himself with a debt repaid.

‘
Give you a lift?’ he asked, friendly again.

‘
You’re going the wrong way for me.’

‘
Come up to my place, then. No hurry is there? Have a cup of tea, then I’ll run you back.’

I
looked at him with doubt, but he seemed sincere. ‘If you like, thanks.’

I
went round and climbed in, dumping gum boots and maps on the floor. He stared away.

‘
Been at me all day,’ he grumbled. He looked sideways at me, to see whether I was with him. ‘The police, I mean.’

‘
Yes,’ I said. ‘They’re like that. I
am
sorry, you know. About Tessa. It really upset me.’

He
was silent. We topped a rise, and the new estate lay before and below us. They’d done a good job of blending-in the old houses. They weren’t even visible. Nothing seemed to break the depressing symmetry of it.

‘
They told me what happened,’ he said at last, then he amended it. ‘What you
said
happened.’

‘
Only the truth.’

He
grunted. We were heading for the western perimeter of the estate. Scatterings of woodland were still there.

‘
I’ll need another car,’ I said. ‘Got anything you can lend me?’

‘
Not really. We don’t handle secondhand sales. There’s the van. Not this one. The old van. It’s diesel, though. Not exactly a private job.’

‘
Diesel?’ I asked. ‘It wouldn’t be white, would it?’

‘
You’ve seen it? Then you’ll know.’

‘
Yes. I’ve seen it.’

We
said no more. He turned off one of the outer perimeter roads. Here, at the end of a cul-de-sac, was lurking amongst the old beeches a large, dark detached building. Clayton swung into the drive. The double garage was modern. He stopped, and we got out. The house had two huge curved windows on the ground floor, with a cavernous porch between them. Somewhere, a door or window was rattling in the breeze. Clayton came to stand at my elbow. ‘Through here,’ he said, and he led me through a gate, along the side of the house, and into his kitchen.

I
had expected it to be untidy, as Tony had been busy the last few days, but not this bad. If the whole house was like this, then Tessa hadn’t done much to it for the last few weeks. He gestured in despair. ‘It’s a mess. Find somewhere to sit, if you can.’

There
was unwashed crockery even on the chair seats. Automatically I began to tidy it a little, to make room to sit down with a cup and saucer before us.

‘
I hate this place,’ he said. ‘It was his, her first husband’s. Lionel Peters. Can’t wait to move out.’

He
had put on a kettle and was swilling out the tea pot. He swung open a tall cupboard door and revealed rows of clean cups and plates and dishes, through which he’d clearly been working. He was bustling about, making a great performance out of brewing a pot of tea, simply, I thought, to give himself an excuse not to look at me.

‘
What did she say to you?’ he asked, tossing it casually over his shoulder.

His
tone confused me. ‘What? Who?’

‘
Tessa. At the garage.’

‘
I’d gone there...’

‘
I know why you’d gone there.’ Now there was a snap in his voice. ‘What did she
say
?’

‘
You told me the police explained all that.’

‘
Your own words, not secondhand.’

I
wasn’t sure it was a good thing, for either of us, to talk about Tessa. I hesitated, but for too long. He came across to the table and crashed cups and saucers in front of me, and, not satisfied with the space I’d achieved, swept an area of the scrubbed table surface clear with his arm, sending assorted crockery crashing off the other end.

‘
Or daren’t you say?’ he demanded.

‘
I dare to say. It’s just that it doesn’t sound real. Not in daylight.’ I managed to keep my voice even and cool. ‘The kettle’s boiling.’

For
a moment he allowed his eyes to bore into mine, then he swung round and returned to his kettle. ‘Let’s hear it anyway.’

‘
She accused me. Said I’d made her a promise, and hadn’t kept it.’

‘
That’d be about George?’

‘
Yes. I couldn’t remember anything about a promise, but we went on, and suddenly I
did
remember. A bit, anyway. About her telling me that George desperately needed the money, and she’d been trying to persuade me to get it to him.’

‘
Was that likely?’

‘
What? That I’d agree?’

‘
Yes.’ He put down the pot, stirred the tea, and plopped a cosy on it. ‘I mean, is a civil servant going to allow himself to get conned into being a messenger...’

‘
You’re saying she conned me? A funny word to use.’ Strange, anyway, considering we were talking about his wife.

He
poured the tea. ‘Persuaded, if you like. With pressure. Help yourself to milk.’

‘
Well yes. I’m not remembering that day – the day of the promise – too well. But I get the distinct impression of her desperation, on behalf of George. You understand, Tony? Drugs he’d lost or something. The people involved wouldn’t be prepared to wait.’

‘
Drugs!’ he said, sipping his tea cautiously. ‘What’re we talking about here? Do
you
know about drugs? I don’t. But...seems to me...six hundred quid ain’t much to go desperate about.’

‘
Possibly not.’

‘
Which was what it was.’

‘
So I understand.’

I
didn’t know where he was leading, but I had to allow him to lead. I stirred sugar in, round and round with the spoon. Waiting.

‘
So you promised,’ he murmured.

‘
It’s just possible that I promised something.’

‘
More than possible. I heard you doing it. Promising.’

I
gave a sigh. One memory confirmed. ‘She gave me a phone number.’ Then I registered what he’d said. ‘You
heard
us? When did you hear us, and where?’

He
smiled. ‘Thought that’d liven you up. You and Tessa, you were down in the foreman’s office. That’s the little place in the corner...’