Geoff Cardy, who was of course unaware of this, wasn’t ready to ask him into the house. They talked in the doorway. “Are you a policeman, Mr. Ash?”
“No. I got mugged earlier in the evening. I was sleeping it off in a spare cell. They put Jerome in with me until they could find him a cell of his own.”
Cardy bridled. “But they didn’t, did they? If they had, he’d be alive today. Instead they put him in with a psycho.”
Ash shook his head, awkward and embarrassed. “I’m not sure what happened, Mr. Cardy. I was concussed—my memory isn’t as clear as it might be. But he said some things to me that I’m hoping will make sense to you, because they don’t to me.”
Cardy frowned. He was a tall man, like his son. “What things?”
Behind him the door of the sitting room opened and Adelaide Cardy came into the hall. “Geoffrey? What’s going on? Who is this gentleman?”
Cardy cast her a glance that said he wasn’t entirely sure. “His name is Ash. He says he was with Jerome before he was killed. He says Jerome gave him a message.”
“Not that exactly,” said Ash quickly, but hope had already lit a candle in Mrs. Cardy’s eyes. She’d thought she would never hear from her son again; now it seemed she might. It wasn’t much—a message from someone he’d been in a police cell with—but when there’s nothing else, and there’s never going to be anything else, anything seems like everything.
“Don’t keep him on the doorstep,” she chided. “Bring him inside, sit him down. Let’s hear what he has to say.”
If Ash had felt uneasy about coming here, now he felt worse. This poor woman thought he had something meaningful to tell her—that her son’s last thoughts had been of his family, something like that. And he hadn’t. There were two things Jerome had said to him—at least, that Ash thought he’d said—and one was as trivial as it was peculiar, and the other he mustn’t on any account share with the boy’s parents. Even if his memory was accurate;
especially
if his memory was accurate. Whatever he told them, he couldn’t tell them that Jerome had known he was going to die. They didn’t need to know how deeply afraid he’d been.
“I’m sorry there isn’t more I can tell you. I was groggy—most of the time he let me sleep. Only, before he left, he said something that I haven’t been able to make any sense of and I suppose I’m hoping it’ll mean something to you. Anyway, I thought I should see you and pass it on.”
He heard himself and winced. It didn’t just sound lame; it sounded as if he was trying to find an excuse for being here, as if his real purpose was to weevil his way into someone else’s tragedy for whatever satisfaction that might afford. He knew this happened.
“Mr. Ash,” said Adelaide Cardy quietly, “will you take a seat? In a moment I’ll make us some tea. But first, I would very much like to hear what my son said to you. I don’t mind if it doesn’t make any sense. If he thought it was worth saying, it’s worth hearing. I’m never going to hear his voice again. Every word he left me is precious.”
Chastened, Ash nodded and took the chair she indicated, and kept his eyes on his knees while he tried to shape his offering into a form she could find some comfort in. Knowing as he did that he was bound to fail, doomed to confuse and disappoint her. “You see, I had my dog with me. Jerome said he liked dogs. He said”—he looked up, watching the effect of his words on her face—“he used to have a dog called Othello.”
He said nothing more. Neither did the Cardys. They seemed to be waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t, Geoff Cardy’s strong face started to fold into a frown, and Adelaide glanced up at him as if she thought she was being slow, that her husband must have understood even if she had not. When she saw his brow beetling, she looked back at Ash, her eyes perplexed. “That can’t be right, Mr. Ash. You must have got it wrong.”
“Jerome never had a dog,” said Cardy shortly. “We can’t have animals in the house—I’m allergic to the fur. You must have misunderstood.”
Which was what Hazel Best thought. That he’d dreamed some of it, misremembered the rest. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he should have known better than to credit anything that went on inside his head. Quite apart from the concussion, he knew his faculties were no longer entirely trustworthy. Maybe his aching head had made a hash of the filing and he was remembering these events just sufficiently off-kilter to create a mystery where none existed.
He had no way of knowing, no yardstick against which to judge. He thought that what he remembered, what seemed to have happened, what he thought he’d heard, was essentially accurate. But then, he would think that, whether or not. “Could it have been someone else’s dog? Someone he knew. I’m sure he called it Othello.”
Adelaide looked up at her husband, who had remained standing. “Was he thinking of a friend’s dog? Do you remember him walking a dog for a friend?”
Cardy shook his head. “Not that he said to me. I’d have remembered. I’d have worried about him bringing its hairs home on his clothes.”
Ash glanced down guiltily at his dark suit. But it had been in the back of the wardrobe since before he had Patience—he didn’t think he was going to leave Geoff Cardy in a state of anaphylactic shock.
“Anyway,” added Jerome’s father roughly, “what kind of a name for a dog is Othello?”
A faint sweet smile stole across Adelaide’s face. “It’s a very
literary
name,” she said with satisfaction. “Most children these days have no idea who Shakespeare is.” The smile turned apologetic. “Comes of having an English teacher for a mother, I suppose.”
“Was
Othello
his favorite play?” asked Ash, grasping for the straws of understanding.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “The story of a black man who murders his white wife because he can’t believe she truly loves him? What do you think?”
Ash winced again. By now he was wishing he hadn’t come. He was never going to understand what Jerome Cardy had wanted to tell him, not least because he couldn’t be sure what Jerome had said. “Probably not.”
Geoff Cardy owned a garage. He did not share in his wife’s love of literature, had always felt a little excluded because their son did. Now Jerome was dead and she was sharing it with a stranger. Resentment rose in his throat like bile. “Mr. Ash, I thought you had something to tell us about how our son died. Or why. Or
something.
I’m sorry, but I’m not finding this particularly helpful.”
“No, I’m sorry,” said Ash, contrite. “I shouldn’t have troubled you. I just thought … I thought he wanted to put something on record, something he didn’t want to put into words, and I didn’t understand what it was and I wondered if you might. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”
Adelaide touched the back of his hand with a soft finger, startling him. He had grown unused to human contact. “Don’t be sorry. My son had a bad death. He was afraid, and helpless, and much, much too young. But there’s this. Shortly before he died he was with someone he trusted enough to talk to, and who cared enough about what happened to try to pass the message on. Maybe we’ll never know what he wanted to say, or even if there was something. But you tried, Mr. Ash, and I appreciate that.”
There was nothing more he could tell them and nothing he could learn. It had been a fool’s errand. The effort of will it had taken to get him here, to make him talk to these people, had been wasted, as had their time. “Thank you for seeing me. I won’t trouble you again.”
But at the door he hesitated. “
Othello.
It’s about jealousy, isn’t it? About a man destroyed by his own jealousy.”
“Jealousy, yes,” agreed Mrs. Cardy, “and love. Iago is jealous of his commander’s success and sets about ruining him. He sows the seeds of jealousy in Othello by hinting that his new wife is betraying him. Even more than jealousy, the play is about love running out of control, and the fear that comes with all love—that it will not last forever. Othello accepts Iago’s lies because he can’t believe that someone he loves that much loves him in return. Othello is as much a victim as Desdemona is. But who cries for him?” Perhaps she was unaware of the tears streaking her cheeks.
Ash hesitated, aware of how much pain he was causing and afraid of twisting the knife. But he thought he needed to know. “Was Jerome in love?”
With a quick, concerned glance at his wife, Cardy fielded that one. “Jerome was twenty years old. He was halfway through a law degree at Durham University. He didn’t have time to be in love.”
“Then, was there anyone he was afraid of?”
The boy’s father bristled. “I’m guessing he was a
bit
worried about the man who beat him to death!”
“But he didn’t know Robert Barclay. Even if he had, he’d have had no reason to suppose they’d meet in Meadowvale Police Station. But when he was talking to me, he was already afraid. He knew something awful was going to happen.”
He hadn’t meant to say that. But it was out now. Not for the first time he hated himself for the loss of that ordinary self-control that normal people take for granted, that tells them when it’s appropriate to talk and when things are better left unsaid. For months at a time Gabriel Ash had hardly spoken to anyone except his therapist and his dog. Now, when it mattered, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Mrs. Cardy rocked gently to this new revelation, blinking back her tears. “He’d been in an accident. He’d been arrested. He must have known he was in trouble.”
“The accident wasn’t his fault. But he left the scene, then he tried to evade the police. Why would he do that? Why didn’t he just do what was required of him—report the accident and stay with the vehicles? Why did he run?”
But they couldn’t tell him. They didn’t know.
CHAPTER 10
W
ITH RELUCTANCE,
with trepidation, fervently wishing she could turn a blind eye as easily as everyone else at Meadowvale seemed able to, Hazel decided she couldn’t sit on the fence any longer. She had to speak to Fountain, whatever the cost to Donald Murchison and to herself. She went in on Friday morning. It seemed better to her to do this on her own time than during the hours she was being paid for.
She didn’t make an appointment, for the same reason Ash hadn’t phoned the Cardys. She tapped on the chief superintendent’s door and asked his secretary if he was free.
The location of Johnny Fountain’s office said a lot about the man and explained much of his success. His predecessor had made his office on the top floor, with panoramic views over the park and the canal and out to the Shropshire hills. Fountain had relocated the canteen to the top floor, putting himself at the hub of Meadowvale Police Station, on the first floor, at the top of the main staircase. Anyone going anywhere had to pass his door. He didn’t have the views, or the peace and quiet, that his predecessor had enjoyed, but it was much easier for him to keep a finger on the station’s pulse.
And it was easy for people to stop by on the off chance of seeing him. Hazel was pretty sure that if she’d had to climb three stories, nodding a greeting to everyone she passed on the way, she’d have changed her mind before she got there.
She was dreading having to put her suspicions into words. Part of her hoped he’d be busy, or not in his office, and she’d have to go away again. But coming back would be even harder, so she steeled herself to knock, smile politely at Miss Patel, his secretary—a fine-boned woman in her late thirties who protected her boss with a devotion that earned her the nickname “the Pitbull”—and ask if Mr. Fountain would see her.
To her deep dismay, he would.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, waving her to the chair across his desk, “I’ve been wanting a word with you.”
“Sir?” She couldn’t think what else to say.
“That business in the cells. Horrible business. It’s been hard to think about much else since it happened. I suppose you’re the same.”
“Well … yes, sir.”
“We all are. Something like that affects everyone, even those who weren’t involved. All the same,” and he gave her a craggy smile, “we have other duties, other obligations, and I can’t let everything else go to pot while IPCC tries to make sense of a few chaotic minutes in our cells. I should have had you in here before this.”
Hazel felt her heart turn over and begin to sink. “Yes, sir?”
Fountain smiled. He was still a good-looking man, tall and broad, with a leonine presence that rendered the whiteness of his hair and mustache entirely irrelevant. “Cheer up,” he said, “I haven’t pulled you in here to sack you. I wanted to ask how it’s going for you—if you’re getting the support you need.”
She was taken aback. “Yes—indeed, sir. People have been great. Helpful, and welcoming. Up to two days ago, I was really enjoying the job.”
He nodded grimly. “And then you met Robert Barclay. I’m afraid the Barclays of this world are part of the job. No one joins for the privilege of dealing with them, but deal with them we must.”
She sucked in a deep breath and asked the question that had been racking her. At least one of them. “Was it my fault, sir? If I’d handled it better—kept my distance, waited for back-up as Constable Budgen wanted to do—would things have worked out better?”
Johnny Fountain gazed at her with compassion. His voice was a soft growl. “You mean, would Jerome Cardy be alive today?”
Silent, Hazel nodded.
Fountain shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t. That’s not where it went wrong. There were two points where events could have taken a different path, and you weren’t involved in either of them. Whatever got Barclay spitting tacks, that was one of them. We don’t know what set him off and we probably never will. But once he was out of control, somebody was always going to call us, we were always going to have to arrest him, and he was always going to end up in the cells. If he’d come with you quietly, he’d have ended up there; if we’d gone in mob-handed, he’d still have ended up there.
“The other thing that went wrong was that Jerome Cardy was kipping in a cell where he wasn’t supposed to be. That wasn’t your fault, either. I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. Donald Murchison thinks it was his, because he was custody officer and should have known where his prisoners were, but what are you going to do—crucify him for not locking the door on a quiet law student and a sleeping tramp? It was a reasonable thing to do. That’s what I expect IPCC to conclude: that nobody did anything wrong. Except Barclay, and what can you expect of a man known to one and all as Barking Mad?”