An Air That Kills (15 page)

On the evening after Inspector Thornhill's visit, he tried to follow the same routine, but with only partial success. He was not used to these interruptions – first Charlotte Wemyss-Brown and that friend of hers, and then the policeman. It had upset the whole day. He had planned to take the poppies round the village, and later to have a word with old John Veale, the secretary of the Edge Hill branch of the British Legion, about the arrangements for the Remembrance Day Parade on Sunday; but with all the excitement there simply hadn't been time.

It had been disturbing, too, to hear of the dead baby. Well, that was hardly surprising. But no historian, Harcutt told himself, could be entirely remote from his material. He had been pleased by the way he had handled the interview: the way the facts had come when he called them, marshalled in the right order. All in all, he flattered himself that he'd acquitted himself rather well. He imagined the young policeman sitting down and writing his report: ‘Thanks to Major Harcutt's expert services, we can tentatively identify . . .'

It was all over now. All gone. He wondered whether they would give the bones a Christian burial.

Because of the excitement, Harcutt found it difficult to settle to his work. He had an extra drink after dinner to settle his nerves. Usually he took the dog out for her last run at ten o'clock and afterwards he would have his nightcap before going to bed. Tonight, however, he decided to take her out nearly twenty minutes before his usual time. Milly was badgering him, nuzzling his leg with her nose. The truth was, the major was restless, and his restlessness had communicated itself to the dog.

Swaying slightly, he stood by the door of the room and dressed himself in his overcoat, scarf, gloves and hat. When he opened the door, Milly slipped into the hall and pattered towards the front door. Harcutt let her outside. It was another clear, cold evening which might well bring a frost with it. The major slipped on his rubber overshoes, took his stick and walked carefully down the drive. The collie, a black shadow, zigzagged in front of him. The ruts and the puddles made the ground underfoot rather treacherous, but Major Harcutt was used to negotiating these obstacles. He had almost reached the gates before he realised that he'd left Milly's lead in the hall.

The dog was waiting patiently at the kerb.

‘Good girl,' the major muttered. ‘Daddy's pleased with you.'

He'd put her on the lead when crossing the road since she was a puppy. But come to think of it, there was really no need. Milly was a well-trained animal – he'd seen to that.

‘Sit,' he said sternly.

Obediently she lowered her rump to the pavement. The major came towards her and laid his hand on her collar. Even at night, there was a certain amount of traffic, but at this moment the road was clear. The two of them walked across. He let go of Milly's collar and the dog loped away, her paws silent on the grass, in the direction of the church. It was very dark, apart from scattered lights in the houses fronting the green.

Today was an anticlockwise day. Harcutt marched round the green twice every day, after breakfast and after supper, and each day was either an anticlockwise day or a clockwise day.

This evening he walked quickly, keeping his ears and eyes alert for the sound of other people or other dogs. There had been one or two rather nasty incidents on the green in the past. He could not deny that, when provoked, Milly had a bit of a temper. On one occasion she'd nearly torn the ear off that nasty little mongrel belonging to the Veales who lived in the cottage nearest the church. There was also the question of dog messes. Complaints had been made to the parish council. Major Harcutt had been led to understand that several people were strongly in favour of putting up a notice on the subject.

As he was passing the Veales' cottage, their dog barked while Milly was doing her business on the grass, and the front-room curtains twitched. Milly barked back, and Harcutt had to drag her away. They completed the circuit without any other problems.

On their return, they had to wait to cross the road because several cars came along, travelling at speed in the Lydmouth direction. As they waited, Harcutt realised that there was a man standing between the gateposts of his drive. He strained to see who it was, but failed. The dog saw the man too, and wanted to investigate.

Frowning, the major crossed the road, his hand gripping Milly's collar. There was enough light to see that the man was wearing an army greatcoat. A bicycle with a basket attached to its handlebars was leaning against one of the gateposts. It did not occur to Harcutt that there might be any reason to be frightened. He had a stick and a dog, there was plenty of traffic passing and in any case he had never been a physical coward.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘What is it?'

‘It's Major Harcutt, isn't it?' The voice was local, though the accent had been eroded by other influences. ‘I was just passing. Thought I'd look in.'

‘Do I know you?'

Milly growled and Harcutt tightened his grip on the dog's collar. She'd bitten people before, including the baker and the vicar, and he'd heard rumours that some people wanted her to be put down.

‘You used to employ me. Remember?'

‘I've employed a lot of people in my time, young man. I really can't be expected to remember every single one. Now if you'll excuse me . . .'

‘No, I mean here.' The man waved towards the dark block of the house. ‘I didn't work in one of the yards, look. I worked in your garden. Before the war, it was.'

‘Really?' Harcutt bent down and said to the dog: ‘Be quiet, miss.'

‘My mam helped out with the cleaning. And I was the gardener's boy.'

The dog growled, but the major said nothing. Two lorries went by on the road behind him.

‘It was the summer of 1938 I started. I left about a year later. Remember?'

‘I most certainly do.' The major's breathing had become rapid and laboured. His fingers tightened round the stick.

Charlie Meague came a step closer. He was several inches taller and Harcutt automatically took a step backwards; the dog strained to attack the visitor.

‘You still interested in history, then?' Meague asked.

‘Now listen to me. I don't think that's anything to do with you. It's very late and I really can't stand here talking any longer. I'll bid you goodnight.'

He started up the drive, dragging the growling, reluctant dog after him.

Meague raised his voice a little so it would be audible over the engine of a passing car. ‘Because I thought you'd like to know I'm working on that building site at Templefields, and we found some old bones yesterday. And some other stuff. Did you hear about that?'

The major stopped.

‘Thought you might like to find out what was there.' Now the voice had a silky, insinuating quality. ‘For your book, that is. You still writing the book, are you? But if you don't want to know, well – that's up to you. I'll be off then.'

The major turned back in time to see the man throw his leg over the bicycle and pedal away. As Harcutt turned, his foot slipped into a rut and he almost fell. His arms flailed as he fought to regain his balance and he lost his grip on Milly's collar.

The dog ran barking to the end of the drive and chased after the departing cyclist. A car passed, sounding its horn.

‘Come here, miss. Come here!'

Harcutt broke into a stumbling run. He blundered out of the drive and on to the pavement. Meague had already cycled across the road. The red light on the back of his bicycle was moving steadily along the green; for an instant it seemed to Harcutt that Meague for some mysterious reason of his own must be tracing the route that he and Milly had taken a few minutes earlier.

The throb of another engine had been growing steadily louder for the last few seconds. As the major reached the pavement, a pair of headlights dazzled him. Only yards away was a lorry, pushing before it a cushion of air; something was rattling and flapping above the roar of the engine. The dog was not on the pavement. She was running across the road.

‘Milly!'

The noise grew louder, the light became even more blinding, and the rush of oncoming air battered him. Major Harcutt ran into the road after his dog.

Part Three

Friday

Chapter One

‘Brings back a few memories, eh?' Philip said as he ushered Jill towards the room where the press briefing was to take place.

‘Extraordinary. It makes me feel eighteen again. I'm not sure I like it.'

Philip grinned at her. ‘Tricky things, memories. I try and avoid them myself.'

Jill had forgotten the smell of a police station. Like most people, she rarely had occasion to go into one. But once, in the years she had spent learning her trade on the
Paulstock Observer
, she had been familiar with the insides of both police stations and magistrates' courts; they had been part of her professional habitat.

The years had passed and she had changed, but the smell remained the same – and it was the smell which unlocked the memories. Lydmouth police headquarters, like other police stations in the past, was a masculine place, and it smelled of polish, sweat and tobacco. Underneath the odour of institutional authority were other, lesser smells – sour and almost feral, which reminded her of enclosed places in a zoo.

‘Williamson loves to see his name in print,' Philip had told her as they were driving to police headquarters. ‘Of course, what he'd really like is a roomful of reporters from the nationals, but beggars can't be choosers.'

Philip had invited her on the grounds that a provincial press conference might amuse her. She found the assumption that she needed amusing rather disturbing. In the car, he had tactfully mentioned that the occasion was something of a novelty for him as well – usually the
Gazette
's senior reporter would have covered the meeting. His tact was even more disturbing.

The briefing was held in what was rather grandly called the Conference Room, which was on the ground floor and at the front of the building. There were five other journalists present, ranging in age from a seventeen-year-old boy waiting to do his National Service, to an elderly man named Mr Fuggle – ‘pronounced with a long “u”, as in “bugle”, if you please'. They treated Philip with the deference befitting a man who was not only the editor of the most influential newspaper in the area, but also married to its owner. Before the briefing began, there were murmured condolences about the
Gazette
's senior reporter: the man himself seemed less regretted than the inconvenience that his heart attack had caused the Wemyss-Browns.

Superintendent Williamson came into the room as St John's clock was striking nine thirty. Thornhill followed, carrying a bundle of files. On being introduced to Jill, Williamson examined her with interest, his pipe poking out of the corner of his mouth at the ceiling.

‘Pleasure to have you with us, Miss Francis.' The pipe dipped towards her. ‘I hope you won't find anything too – ah – shocking.'

Thornhill nodded coolly at her and smiled at Philip. If he didn't want to be friendly, Jill thought, that was his affair. He'd nicked his jaw while shaving that morning.

Once the introductions were over, Jill said very little. She sat beside Philip and kept her head down. She knew that her very presence would have an inhibiting effect on the meeting: she was the only woman present, as well as the only stranger – unless, of course, they counted their new inspector as a stranger.

‘This is Inspector Richard Thornhill,' Superintendent Williamson announced before he launched into the briefing itself. ‘He replaces our late-lamented Mr Raeburn, who, you'll be glad to hear, sends you all his best regards.' He rapped his pipe vigorously on the ashtray before him. ‘Now let's get down to business.'

He began with the burglaries at the King's Head and at Masterman's the jeweller's. He made much of the thoroughness of the police investigation so far and hinted strongly that the police knew who was responsible for them. He urged the gentlemen of the press to emphasise to their readers the importance of locking up properly at night and of depositing their valuables, where possible, in the bank.

As Williamson was talking, Philip wrote in shorthand, the hieroglyphics flowing smoothly and rapidly from the tip of his pencil. Jill glanced at the pad. He saw the direction of her gaze, grinned and added another sentence in shorthand for her benefit: ‘He hasn't the faintest idea who did it.'

Mr Fuggle, who claimed that his hearing was not what it had been, twice asked the superintendent to repeat himself.

‘Does it on purpose,' Philip wrote. ‘Fuggle loathes Williamson.'

Williamson had a sense of theatre, and he saved what he felt was the best until last. The atmosphere in the room changed when at last he moved on to the bones which had been found in Templefields. It would be inaccurate to say that the reporters showed any trace of excitement – they had their dignity to consider – but Jill sensed that their interest had sharpened, as hers would have done in their place. The discovery was a little out of the ordinary. The unusual was newsworthy.

‘As you've probably heard, four workmen found some bones and one or two other items in a disused cesspit the day before yesterday. The cesspit was under one of the outbuildings belonging to what used to be the Rose in Hand public house.' Williamson's voice droned like a cruising aircraft. ‘We've had the bones tested, of course, and I can now confirm that they definitely are human.' He paused for dramatic effect. ‘They belonged to a baby.'

Hunched over the scarred table, the reporters scribbled on their pads. Jill thought their concentration had suddenly acquired a greedy quality. The story was meat and drink to them. They were feeding off a dead baby.