An Air That Kills (18 page)

Both Evans and Charlie glanced towards the doorway. Two men were standing there. The smaller, older one looked like some sort of clerk – a surveyor perhaps. The younger was a broad-shouldered young man with fair hair. His overcoat was open, and he had his hands in his pockets and his hat on the back of his head. Charlie hadn't seen either of them before, but the younger man's smile, smug and superior, gave him a clue about the men's identity before anyone spoke.

‘Mr Evans,' said the older man. ‘Good morning. Sorry to break in while you're eating.'

Evans stood up. ‘What can we do for you?'

‘I understand you have a Mr Meague working here. I'd like a word with him.'

Charlie's adrenaline was already running high: he was keyed up for violence; he even wanted it, because the strain of not knowing – about his mother as well as about Harcutt – was becoming unendurable. For an instant, everyone was absolutely still. Charlie's eyes darted to and fro and the possibilities surged through his mind. He'd have to go through the doorway and the two busies were there. And Evans could be relied on to do his little bit from the rear. Don't be stupid, he told himself: that's just what the bastards want. They'd give him a bloody nose, stuff him in a cell and throw away the key.

He raised his hand in a half-salute. ‘What do you want?'

‘Just a chat,' the man said. ‘If Mr Evans can spare you.'

‘I can do that all right,' Evans said, glancing at Charlie. ‘No problem. Off you go.'

The elder of the two policemen cocked his head and looked at Charlie with bright eyes. ‘Let's go for a walk, eh?'

The three of them moved towards the lane. Charlie was conscious of Evans and the rest of the bumpkins staring after him.

‘I'm Inspector Thornhill. This is Sergeant Kirby.'

‘Pleased to meet you.' Charlie paused to let the sarcasm sink in. ‘I'm sure.'

Thornhill made no reply. He led the way into the lane and turned in the direction of the back gates to the Rose in Hand.

Charlie said. ‘Where are we going? I don't have to come with you, do I? Not unless—'

Kirby stopped abruptly, and laid his hand on Charlie's arm. ‘Unless what?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

Thornhill sauntered a few steps up the lane; he appeared not to have heard. ‘Is that the Rose in Hand over there?' he asked, looking back.

Kirby released Charlie, who nodded at Thornhill.

‘I thought it was. Still getting my bearings around here. You were one of the men who found the bones, weren't you?'

‘Me and three others.' Charlie felt dismay creeping over him. ‘Why?'

‘They've caused quite a stir. You'll get your name in the
Gazette
, I shouldn't wonder.'

‘That won't do me much good.'

‘Nothing else was there, I suppose? Besides the newspaper and the brooch. Nothing that could have belonged with the box?'

‘I don't know. Ask Evans.'

Thornhill nodded, his face serious and calm. ‘Yes, good idea.'

Charlie flicked his cigarette butt away. He was beginning to relax. The buggers wre fishing – didn't know what they were looking for.
As long as Harcutt hadn't talked
. The three of them walked on, passing the rear gates to the Rose in Hand. The lane began to move uphill towards Minching Lane. This was the route Charlie usually took to walk home.

‘You and your mother use the King's Head a good deal,' Thornhill said; it was not a question. ‘Very convenient for you. Practically next door.'

Charlie grunted. So that was it: Ma Halleran had been stirring it.

‘You must know Mrs Halleran very well.'

‘What do you think?'

Thornhill sighed. ‘What I think is neither here nor there. It's what I can prove that counts.'

They walked on in a silence that grew a little more awkward with every step. Thornhill was in front of Charlie and Kirby was a pace behind. By now they were within a stone's throw of the derelict building where Charlie had hidden the proceeds of his burglaries. He wanted to hurry past the entrance to the courtyard. Instead he made himself slow down.

‘How long has your mother been a cleaner?' Kirby asked.

Hair prickled on the back of Charlie's neck. ‘As long as I can remember.'

‘Your dad walked out on you when you were a kid, didn't he? Maybe that's when she started.'

‘Maybe.'

Kirby quickened his step and came alongside Charlie. ‘Worked for Mrs Halleran once, didn't she? A few years back, during the war.'

‘What are you trying to say?'

‘I like to get the full picture. Surprising what you pick up sometimes. She used to work for Mr Masterman, too?'

‘Who?'

‘Come on, Charlie. You know Masterman. Chap who's got a jeweller's on Lyd Street. Got turned over the other night. Someone hit him over the head.'

‘Oh, yeah.
That
Masterman.'

‘Bit of a coincidence,' Kirby went on. ‘I wonder who else your mother has worked for. Must ask her some time.'

‘You do that.'

The idea of it worried Charlie enormously. His mother would go to pieces if they started to question her, especially in her present condition. The bastards wouldn't wait: they wouldn't give a damn that she was ill. The first name they'd dig up would be Mrs Wemyss-Brown's, and that would lead to the business with the silver box.

Thornhill came out into Minching Lane and stopped. ‘Seen your friend Carn lately?'

‘Who?'

‘Your friend Jimmy Carn,' Thornhill said. ‘Or maybe you called him Genghis.'

‘He's no friend of mine.'

‘You don't know him?'

‘I didn't say that. I know a lot of people. I said he wasn't a friend of mine.'

‘So you do know him?'

‘I might have bumped into him.'

‘You might indeed,' Thornhill agreed. ‘After all, you shared a flat in Pimlico with him for three months.'

Charlie shrugged, acknowledged partial defeat. ‘I didn't see much of him. It was a business arrangement.'

‘It certainly was. Carn sublet that flat to at least nine different people. Simultaneously. And he took a nonreturnable deposit from each of them.'

‘Nothing to do with me, was it?'

‘Maybe not. Carn's out of prison now.' Thornhill stared up at Charlie. ‘But you know that, don't you?'

‘Why should I?'

‘News gets around. Carn's a nasty man to cross. But I dare say you know that, too.'

Thornhill started walking again in the direction of the Meagues' house and the King's Head. He no longer seemed so meek and mild.

‘Where are we going?' Charlie asked.

Sergeant Kirby fell into step beside him. ‘Thought we'd pay a call on your old mum. See if she can remember who she's worked for over the years.'

‘You're out of luck.'

‘Why's that, Charlie?'

‘She's in hospital, that's why. Pneumonia.'

‘We still might have to see her. Which ward's she in? Who's her GP? How long's she been ill for?'

Charlie reluctantly told him.

‘I don't think we need keep you any longer,' said Thornhill. He added, with that unnerving politeness of his, ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Meague.'

Charlie, breathing heavily as though he had been running, watched the two policemen strolling down Minching Lane. They glanced at the Meagues' house as they passed. A moment later, they turned off in the direction of the town centre.

It could have been worse. They obviously suspected he might have done the burglaries; they even suspected why; but they couldn't prove a thing, even if they talked to his mother, unless they found a trace of him at Masterman's or the King's Head, or unless they found the stolen goods and were able to connect them with him. So far they had found neither, otherwise they would have arrested him.

He was safe, so long as he kept his head and did nothing stupid. The big relief was that Harcutt hadn't talked: he hadn't told the police of Charlie's conversation with him the previous evening. But
why
hadn't Harcutt talked?

He came to a decision. The police had given him a few minutes' grace, so he might as well make good use of them. A moment later he was in the hallway of the King's Head.

On either side were doors to the bars; in front of him was the telephone. He could hear Ma Halleran's voice raised in argument – probably with her son Mike who was weak in the upper storey, a circumstance his mother found infuriating. Charlie found a couple of pennies and fumbled through the telephone directory until he found the number of the RAF Hospital.

‘Major Harcutt?' said a refined and adenoidal voice at the hospital switchboard. ‘One moment – yes, he's in Ward Eleven. I can put you through to the ward, if you'd like.'

A door opened; Ma Halleran came into the hall and stood there, arms akimbo, staring at Charlie.

‘Hello?' said the switchboard operator. ‘Hello, caller? Hello?'

Charlie put down the phone.

‘What are you doing here?' Mrs Halleran asked. ‘I thought you had a job to go to.'

He smiled at her. ‘How many cases of Scotch did you say you lost the other night? Three was it? Is that what you told the police?'

Smiling to himself, he slipped out of the pub and walked back to the Rose in Hand. He was feeling more cheerful. Harcutt was alive. And he hadn't told the police about meeting him. So maybe there was still hope.

At the warehouse, the men were still having their dinner. But he knew at once by the silence that something had happened, or was about to happen. He saw Evans standing just inside the doorway. Beside him was the burly figure of Cyril George.

‘I want a word with you,' George said to Charlie. ‘Outside.'

Charlie backed into the yard. George, hands in pockets, came after him, followed by Evans.

‘You're sacked,' George said. ‘Come and get your cards and your money.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't like troublemakers.'

George set off across the yard without a backward glance.

‘Come on, Charlie,' Evans said, smiling and rubbing his big, capable hands together. ‘Don't want to keep the man waiting, do we?'

Chapter Four

Sometimes Antonia Harcutt had lunch in the dining hall, but more usually she brought sandwiches and ate them at her desk. Her desk was in the outer office – more of a glorified corridor, really – which guarded the approach to the warden's study. Miss Plimfield always had lunch with the staff and the girls. The advantage of eating in the office was that it allowed Antonia to do crossword puzzles while she ate; and, of course, her reference books were at hand if she happened to need them.

The phone rang while Antonia was eating her second Spam sandwich and wondering whether there were five or six Great Lakes in Canada. The ringing startled her, for it was unusual to have a telephone call at this time. As she seized the handset, a piece of meat slipped from the sandwich and fell on her lap.

‘Good morning, that is, good afternoon,' she mumbled. ‘The Dampier Hall School for Handicapped Girls.'

‘Good afternoon.' The voice was female and accustomed to command. ‘Could I speak to Antonia Harcutt?'

‘Oh, yes, that's me.' Antonia realised that she should have said ‘I', not ‘me', but then she would have sounded pretentiously pedantic, so really one couldn't win.

‘Good. This is Charlotte Wemyss-Brown.'

The name was familiar, but Antonia couldn't place it. The failure brought her to the edge of panic. ‘I'm afraid I . . .'

‘You remember. We were at school together.' There was, Antonia thought, a hint of impatience in the voice. ‘You were a few years younger than me. I was Charlotte Wemyss then, of course.'

‘Oh,
yes
.' To her great relief, Antonia's memory began to work again. ‘You were head girl, weren't you?'

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘For my sins.'

All the prefects had worn purple badges on their navy-blue tunics, but only the head girl had a canary yellow sash as well. Charlotte Wemyss had inspired more fear in Antonia than most of the teachers. Charlotte had been a buxom girl with an implacable sense of what was due to her authority. Hadn't she won an exhibition to Oxford just before the war? And her father had owned the
Gazette
.

‘You lived at Troy House, didn't you?'

‘Still do. Listen, I'm afraid I've got some bad news. Your father's had an accident.'

Antonia stared with round, fascinated eyes at the moist pink triangle of meat which lay on the tweed of her skirt.
He's dead, he's dead, he's dead
.

‘Nothing to worry about, thankfully. Bruising, sprained ankle, that sort of thing.'

She swallowed. ‘What happened?'

‘He was nearly knocked down by a lorry last night. Just managed to jump clear in time. But I'm afraid Milly wasn't so lucky.'

‘The
dog
's dead?'

‘I'm so sorry, dear. I understand she was yours.'

‘Milly wasn't mine.'

‘Oh.' After the briefest of hesitations. Charlotte made a sound like a muted whinny and plunged on: ‘He's in the RAF Hospital for a night or two. But he hopes to get out tomorrow. So when can you come?'

‘What?'