End in Tears (24 page)

“It's no good, Bal,” she said. “Maybe it's my fault”—she knew it wasn't—“but this isn't going to work. I'm sorry.”

“What are you talking about, Hannah?”

“We've left it too long. Don't you feel that? Don't you
see?
This sort of thing should be natural and spontaneous. I did tell you only you wouldn't listen. It all had to be serious and getting to know each other and…and whatever. And now it's too late.”

He pulled the car into a lay-by. “What do you want to do? Stay there in separate rooms? We can do that. I've always said delay is the wisest way.”

“Yes, and look where it's got us. You go on. Drop me in Taunton and I'll go back on the train. Taunton's on the main line, isn't it?”

“Don't be stupid,” he said and his face was as dark as the sky outside. “Of course I'll drive us back.”

And he did. Speechless, controlled, but sometimes making a noiseless sound like a suppressed growl.

“I need to go to the loo,” she said, somewhere in West Sussex. They had a cup of coffee, remembered they had had no dinner and each tried to eat a pork pie and a tomato.

“I think you have lost your mind,” said Bal.

She shrugged.

“This seems to be the end, don't you think?”

“There was never much beginning,” she said.

He was so beautiful to look at, even when he was tired and cross. What a waste. And she did like him, she'd miss him, only the trouble was she wouldn't because he'd always be there. Maybe she should apply for a transfer—but why should she? She wasn't the one in the wrong. He drove on in renewed silence.

The traffic had thinned out, especially in this easterly direction. As always, drivers were tempted to go over the speed limit, past eighty and into the nineties. Bal, of course, kept to an obedient seventy, unworried when the speed camera flashed, aimed at the eighty-seven-miler in the fast lane.

They didn't speak again until they had passed the sign that said
WELCOME TO KINGSMARKHAM, A HISTORIC TOWN
. Bal went on around the roundabout instead of turning left, and Hannah said, “You've gone the wrong way.”

He gave a humorless scathing laugh. “One of us has, that's for sure.”

Never again would he say “us” in quite that way, she thought. He turned the car around, took Orchard Road, and stopped rather too sharply outside her block. She turned to look at him, but he didn't look at her. His hands were still on the wheel, clenched tightly.

As she left the car she said again, “I'm sorry.”

 

Damon could never understand what the radio and TV weather forecasters meant when they said that the rain would move away northward (or southward or eastward) to be succeeded by sunshine and showers. Showers were rain, weren't they? When he was a child one of his parents' white neighbors used to shout after him to go back to where he belonged. As he had been born in London he had no idea of where this might be and one day he turned and asked the woman. He asked her very politely.

“A hot place,” she said. “Hot enough to burn you up, cheeky monkey.”

But she never shouted after him again. Damon thought it would never rain in the hot place and he rather liked the idea of going there. He remembered this when he was back again in Glebe Alley, watching the zigzag fire escape and wondering if one of those showers was due. It was a moonless, starless night. The sky might be clear or covered in cloud, you couldn't tell. He had put on his thick mac again just in case and it felt hot inside it. Hot enough to burn you up, cheeky monkey. Damon smiled to himself. That poor old woman everyone in the neighborhood knew was half-crazed could have been up in court these days for saying what she had said to him. It was a funny world.

Because he was using Bal's car and, anyway, parking it more or less out of sight, Colin Fry and Emma might have decided to go back to using their front entrance. There was nothing he could do about that. He couldn't be in two places at once. A drop of rain fell on his nose, and as he put up his hand to wipe it away they emerged from the door at the top of the fire escape. He didn't wait but ran down the alley, into Glebe Lane and his car. The good clean he had given its inside first thing this morning had smartened it up, but it still felt damp. He moved it a dozen yards along Glebe Road and into the one remaining vacant space. If a visitor to the flat arrived now, where would he put his car?

In the next street along, apparently, or else he had come on the bus, for the man who approached the dry-cleaners and put his key in the lock on the red door had come on foot. He was a tall man in an expensive-looking belted Burberry and he had put up his umbrella. But as the door swung open he necessarily had to furl it and when he stepped inside and shook the umbrella onto the doorstep, Damon saw his face in the lamplight. It was a face he recognized. That is, he had seen it somewhere before without being able to recall who it was.

Silently, he cursed. He must be able to remember whose face this was. Where had he seen the man? He'd think of all the places he'd been recently, all the people he'd talked to…

The street was no longer empty. A woman was approaching from the High Street end of Glebe Road. The dark glasses she wore were hardly appropriate for this weather, especially as she had on an ankle-length black raincoat and was carrying a man's large umbrella. Was she also making for Colin Fry's flat?

It would seem so. The rain eased up before she got there and she put down the umbrella. Looking about her, to her right and left, she pushed her glasses up onto the scarf she had tied around her head. Damon had never seen her before. All he could say about her was that she was about forty or younger. But then it was hard to tell when they pulled their hair back like that, stretching the skin under the eyes and lifting the cheeks. Back where he came from they had a term for it, the “Croydon facelift.”

She went up to the door by the dry-cleaners, but before she could touch the bell it was opened and she stepped quickly inside.

CHAPTER 25

T
he week of fine weather, which usually comes sometime in October, arrived at the end of it. This “little summer” started the day Hannah Goldsmith began a week of her annual leave so that she wished she hadn't been so hasty as to book, only the previous week, a six-day holiday in Crete. She had left it so late because she had naturally expected that by this time she and Bal would be going away together. But Bal hadn't spoken to her since their ill-fated trip to Somerset, except in the line of work, once more calling her “sarge,” and she had spoken to him only when she had to and calling him nothing at all. Now she was going away on her own and she had never looked forward to a holiday less.

Damon had searched his memory to recall who the man was he had seen go into Colin Fry's flat but without success. He saw the white zigzag fire escape in his dreams but he couldn't conjure up that face again. Did it matter? Damon thought it did because Wexford always said that everything, never mind how small, mattered in a murder case.

A double-page-spread story appeared in the
Kingsmarkham Courier
in which Darren Lovelace, who appeared to have been promoted to Chief Reporter, lamented the days when Scotland Yard was called in to investigate murders such as had occurred in the area in August and September. The days before murder squads and serious-crime squads existed. What was needed, he wrote, was the creation of a British version of the FBI and, simultaneously, the compulsory redundancy of “back numbers” like Wexford.

Wexford read it and suffered. He knew that things never seem quite as bad the next day and, by two days later, are well on the way to fading altogether. This, of course, is no help at the time of reading. He opened the
Courier
again and looked at the old picture of himself quaffing beer. Time was when local newspapers were bland and inoffensive, afraid of upsetting their on-the-doorstep readership. If Darren Lovelace regretted the somewhat inaccurate past he attributed to the police force, Wexford looked back with nostalgia on those days when the
Courier
's big stories were meetings of the urban district council, the flower show, and the high school's A level results. He crumpled up the paper in his two hands and was thrusting it into the recycling wastepaper basket when a Mr. Bartlow was announced. Would Wexford see him?

“Send him up, will you?”

It was Hannah who had interviewed him, so this was Wexford's first sight of Megan's father. His first words after he had introduced himself were that he had just been to his ex-mother-in-law's funeral. “Grace Morgan,” he said. “Maybe you've talked to her. She was a good old girl, the best of that bunch. Ninety-three is a good age, but I'll miss her, though no one else will. I should have come to you before. Being in Kingsmarkham for the funeral fetched me here.”

“What did you come about, Mr. Bartlow?”

“Well, my daughter Megan. Of course, my daughter Megan.”

“Yes. I'm sorry,” Wexford said.

“She didn't let me know, you know.” Wexford had no need to ask who “she” was. “I had to see it on the TV,” Bartlow said. “Well, my wife saw it and told me. Broke it to me, I suppose you'd say. Apart from Lara, I've got two more kids with my wife, but that doesn't stop you grieving for the one that's gone.”

“I'm sure it doesn't.”

Bartlow shifted in his chair. “You may think what I'm going to tell you just, well, a load of rubbish. It's nothing, really. The young lady detective who came, I thought of telling her, but, well, frankly, I was afraid she'd think it ridiculous. But it's been sort of haunting me. My wife said it was nothing and to forget it, but yesterday when I said I thought I'd go to old Gracie's funeral she said to come in here and get it off my chest. If you think it's rubbish, well, you can just say so.”

“Try me,” said Wexford.

“Okay, then. Here goes. I told the young lady how Meg came over the day of the Pauceley Fair. Well, we all had a bit of tea at the fair and Megan said she'd like to get home before dark. I was all in favor of that. I didn't care for her and Lara being out alone after dark. God knows, when it happened to her it was in daylight, wasn't it?” When Wexford nodded he went on, “I walked her to the bus stop in Sewingbury. It's only about half a mile from where the fair was. There's just one bus every two hours and I wanted her to be in good time for it. We walked down this street called Pauceley Avenue. They're big houses and on the front drive of one of them was this chap getting out of his car. I knew him by sight but not his name.

“Megan stared at him. We could really only see him in profile. He looked thirty-five to forty and he had a lot of dark hair. As I say, Megan stared at him. He didn't look at us but went into the house and I said to Megan, like in a joke, ‘You'll know him again,' and she said, ‘You're not kidding. I
will
know him again.' And that's all, really. We went on to put her on the bus and that, well, that was the last time I saw her. Now I've told you it seems more like rubbish than ever.”

“I don't think so,” Wexford said, then added, “Did you happen to get the number of the house?”

“No, I didn't, but I couldn't help noticing the name. It was so…well, who does he think he is? It's called The Manor.”

 

They were looking once more at the Surrage-Samphire website, Wexford, Burden, and Damon Coleman; more specifically, at the photographs of the two brothers. Damon said, “No doubt about it, sir. That's the man I saw go into Colin Fry's place. The one called Ross, with all the dark hair. He's the man. I saw him twice the first time. Once when he let himself in at the door and the second time when he opened the door to the woman. I went back later and saw them both come out.”

“You'd know him again? You could identify him?”

“Yes, I could, sir.”

“And the woman?”

“She might be anyone, sir. I couldn't even estimate her age. All I could say is that she wasn't a teenager. Quite tall—well, five seven or eight—and not overweight. It was raining pretty hard and she had a scarf around her head and her umbrella up.”

“Damon's been very thorough,” Wexford said to Burden when they were alone, “but so what? Okay, so Ross Samphire, who puts across a touching picture of the devoted family man, is in fact a sneaky adulterer, but adultery's not a crime. More to the point is what Gary Bartlow saw, escorting Megan to the bus stop in Sewingbury. Plainly, the man getting out of the car was Ross, and Megan recognized him. This, in fact, is proof of what we've always said…”

“You've always said,” Burden cut in generously.

“Okay, I've always said. Megan recognized the man she'd seen in Yorstone Wood on the twenty-fourth of June. Now she knew where he lived and could find out his name she had no hesitation in trying to blackmail him.”

“Which was a highly dangerous thing to do with a man like Ross Samphire.”

Wexford was silent for a little while. While he was thinking like this, concentrating, he always remained perfectly still, his hands relaxed on the desk, his eyes gazing at the opposite wall, yet apparently unseeing. Burden had often seen him like this and when he did he always waited, unwilling to interrupt a reverie. Finally, Wexford said, “So Ross was the man who crossed Yorstone Wood in an attempt to kill Amber by dropping a lump of concrete on her? He can't have been. He was in Spain with his wife and children. Besides, I'd say he was a highly efficient man as well as totally ruthless, wouldn't you?”

“I suppose I would.”

“He wouldn't have tried that concrete-block-over-the-bridge method in the first place. It's too chancy, too hit or miss. If he had killed Megan in Victoria Terrace, why would he put her body in that cupboard in the first place, let alone leave it there for four days?”

“But he must have done the first or Megan wouldn't have recognized him, and he killed her
because
she recognized him.”

“I know,” said Wexford, “but the incompetence of it is what gets me. It's not like Ross. On the other hand, it's a lot like Rick.”

 

“Brothel keeping?” Colin Fry curled his upper lip and looked at Hannah and Damon in disbelief. “I don't know what you mean. There's girls kept when you're brothel keeping. You can't tell me lending your place to a friend for an evening's called brothel keeping.”

“Just tell us what you are doing, Mr. Fry,” said Hannah. “Are you taking payment?”

“And don't tell us this was all out of the goodness of your heart,” said Damon. “You and your girlfriend were out when this couple came. You were out the week before when another couple came.”

“Suppose we were?”

“Mr. Fry, if you'd like to tell us who these people were that came here on Thursday evening, the man at”—Damon referred to his notebook—“seven-twelve
P.M.
and the woman at seven-sixteen
P.M.
, we might take a more lenient view of what you've been up to.”

Pretty sure nothing illegal was going on here, Hannah cut in, “We're not promising anything, mind you. But we just might.”

“It was Ross Samphire, wasn't it, Colin?”

At this point Emma came in, bringing cups of tea no one had been offered or asked for and which, Damon soon found, was made undrinkable by the copious addition of sugar. He tried not to widen his eyes when she bent over to hand Colin his cup and displayed, as her short skirt rode up, stocking tops and black frilly suspenders. The place wasn't all that unlike a brothel…

“Okay,” Colin said. “It was Ross. He'd kill me if he knew I'd told you.” Late in the day, he realized what he had said and clapped his hand over his mouth.

“You didn't tell us. We told you. What does he pay you?”

“Twenty quid an hour,” said Colin sulkily.

“And he was here for three hours. Money for old rope, that is. Have you any other clients? Don't lie about it. We know you have.”

“They're all friends,” Emma said, flying to Colin's defense. “They
want
to pay. We're doing them a favor. Where's the harm if they use our place while we're out? We want to be out. The dosh is like a present.”

“All right. Who was the woman with Ross?”

The self-appointed spokeswoman, Emma, was much better at this than Colin. She would never have admitted that the money they received was payment for anything. It was a present, it was given in gratitude for the service rendered. Hannah knew Emma was lying, but now, when she answered the question, she was sure this was the truth.

“I don't know. Colin doesn't know. He wouldn't tell Colin her name. Why would he?”

Indeed, why would he? Hannah, to whom the concept of a married man renting premises in which to sleep with a woman not his wife was so alien as to be almost incomprehensible, tried to imagine herself in such a man's shoes. She pictured herself presenting the setup to the friend lending the flat and, this more or less accomplished, found that she wouldn't in these circumstances have mentioned the woman's name. What would be the point?

“All right,” she said. “That's all for now. We'd like to see you later today at the police station. Say three
P.M.
?”

“I'll be working,” Colin almost wailed. “I ought to be at work now.”

“Dear, oh, dear,” said Damon. “Since you're employed by Mr. Ross Samphire, I'm sure you'll be able to explain that satisfactorily.”

He was driving. Hannah sat beside him, wishing it were Bal. It didn't help that during the previous week Bal had been using this car while Damon used his and had left a Mars bar and his copy of the
New Statesman
with “Bhattacharya” written on the front on the back seat. An awful feeling of longing to touch these objects that he had touched came over Hannah, even to press his name on the magazine to her lips.
Fool,
she told herself. This was what happened when two people gazed into each other's eyes, slopped over each other and parted instead of taking the healthy option of sleeping together and making love.

She marched into the police station in a bad temper.