KNOTT
I’d be at the turning in five minutes. What the Christ was I going to do? The Cortina had stayed behind me all the way. It couldn’t be the police. Didn’t all police cars have to be marked? But supposing it was? Supposing I’d been seen putting Eileen in the boot. Supposing the driver was just following me and waiting to see what I was going to do? Didn’t they sometimes just follow you in order to throw a scare into you? That had happened to Kate once, one time when she’d driven down to London. She’d been over the limit and a patrol car had stayed right behind for a good ten miles. She’d thought she’d had it until they suddenly pulled out and overtook her and went haring off in front of her.
But even if there was nothing more to it than the fact that the Cortina’s driver just happened to be taking the same route as me, I couldn’t chance going through with my earlier plan. The Cortina’s driver would be bound to remember my car when Eileen’s body was discovered, when the news went out on television, when Peggy the barman remembered seeing the two of us together—Christ, what a bloody fool I was. Why didn’t I turn round and take Eileen’s body back and go to the police and tell them exactly what had happened? And then the thought of losing everything I’d got because of a bloody stupid accident flooded back into my mind. Could I risk that happening? I thought of the body lying all twisted up in the boot. No one should have to lie like that, alone. I shouldn’t have to feel responsible for someone lying there like that. If only I’d never phoned her. God, what was I going to do?
PLENDER
I thought it was time I gave old Knottsy a bit of a hand.
We were only a couple of miles from where he lived, if he hadn’t moved since he’d had his address put in the phone book. The road we were on was at its closest point to the river. There were a number of narrow access roads running down to the bank. He
must
have decided to dump her down there. Christ, if he went any further he may as well leave her out on his front lawn.
No, he really did need the fairy godmother bit at the moment. So I went ahead and gave it to him.
KNOTT
I dipped my headlights as a car rounded the bend in front of me, coming from the opposite direction. But the minute I dipped, the Cortina behind me began to pull out. The fool was going to try and overtake. There wasn’t the time or the room. He must be able to see that. Any fool could see
that
. But he kept coming, accelerating all the time. He drew level with me. The other car was almost up to us. Then at the last minute the Cortina dropped back and tried to tuck in behind me again, but he misjudged my speed and his own speed and the length of our cars and just about every bloody thing else because he swung his wheel to the left too soon and clanged into the back of my Mercedes.
I don’t know how I managed to keep the car on the road. The back end swung towards the curb. I whipped the steering wheel from side to side until I thought I was out of trouble but the fool didn’t even attempt to slow down after he’d swiped me and, as I tried to hold the Mercedes steady, the Cortina hit me again, ramming hard into the boot. I knew by the sound he’d done a lot of damage. Supposing he’d caused the boot to snap open. I had a mental picture of the body flying out into the road, sliding out of the sack, illuminated by the Cortina’s headlights. I jerked the steering wheel hard over and bumped the Mercedes on to the grass verge and stood on the brakes.
I fully expected the Cortina to keep going; I imagined he’d be only too pleased to get as far away as possible without exchanging insurance companies. But that wasn’t the case. The Cortina came to a halt a little way up the road.
I watched, fascinated, as the driver’s door opened and a man got out and walked round to the front of his car. I wanted to run. A little while later he reappeared and began to walk towards me. I managed to open the door and get out before he reached the car; after all, I was the injured party. To be passive would be suspicious. I walked round to the back of the car. The boot, thank God, was still closed. I heard the man approach. I pretended to inspect the damage. The footsteps stopped behind me.
The man said, “Bloody hell, I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I must have had a blank moment.”
I straightened up and turned to face him.
“It’s done now,” I said. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is.”
“Oh but it does,” he said. “I mean, it was my fault. It was all my fault.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, walking past him, back towards the open door.
The man followed me. He couldn’t believe his ears.
“Doesn’t matter?” he said. “What do you mean? You’re not intending to pay for the damage yourself?”
I eased myself into the driver’s seat and looked up at the man. The interior light illuminated his face.
I stared at him. I could have sworn . . .
“Hey,” said the man. “Hang on. Wait a minute.” A great grin broke over his face. “I don’t believe it. It can’t be. I just don’t believe it. Peter. Peter Knott.”
Now I knew I was in hell. Staring into the car was a face I hadn’t seen for fifteen years. The face of Brian Plender.
A car swept past us, it’s headlights turning Plender’s face chalk white, blurring the features, and then bringing them back into focus.
Brian Plender. My Christ.
“Christ,” he said. “Peter. Peter Knott.”
He stepped back. I was expected to get out of the car. Somehow I managed to do what was expected of me. We shook hands and I found it in me to say his name out loud and smile and gabble a few meaningless phrases.
“I don’t believe it,” he said again. “I really don’t. Here. What’re you doing on this side of the river, anyway? You don’t live over here, do you?”
“Well, actually, yes . . .”
“What a coincidence. Me and you. Neighbours for years and now we’re neighbours again. In a manner of speaking.”
He punched me lightly on the upper arm.
“Do you live near here?” he said.
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Whereabouts?”
I told him. He whistled.
“You must be doing all right. I live in Henderson Street. Do you know it? It’s off Carr Road.”
I shook my head.
“Not surprising,” he said, as though it was a joke. Then his face became serious. “Anyway, look, about your car. I’m sorry. I really am. But, I know someone in the trade. He owes me a favour. Let me have it now and I can have it back to you by Monday.”
I opened my mouth but I was sure I wasn’t going to be able to speak.
“No, that’s all right,” I heard myself say. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it seen to myself.”
“You sure? Look, honestly, let me . . .”
“No. My own garage’ll do it,” I said. I managed a smile. “They specialise in Mercedes.”
“Well, have it your way,” he said. “I say, if you live in Ingham, you must know the Ferry Boat.”
I nodded. I knew what he was going to suggest. Sickness welled up in my chest. I had to get away from him. My previous plan was useless now. I had to be on my own and think of something else instead of standing in the flicking rain acting out this bloody farce. But I daren’t be too abrupt in case at a later date my abruptness was remembered.
“Yes, I do,” I said. “I . . .”
“Well then, this calls for a drink.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve over half an hour. Hell, we’ve fifteen years to fill in. What about it?”
“Look, Brian I’d love to,” I said. “But I told the wife . . .”
“The wife? You, married?” He punched me on the arm again. “You old son of a gun. You’re the last of the old gang I’d expect to be married. Still, knowing you, she’s worth the ball and chain, eh?”
I forced my mouth to work again and managed to nod my head at the same time.
“The thing is,” I said, “I’ve been working all day and she’s been expecting me since six . . .”
“Phone her up,” he said. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen every day. She’s bound to understand. Better still, why don’t we go straight round there? I’m dying to meet the lass that put a dog collar on old Peter Knott. How about it?”
There was no way out of it. I had to go and have a drink with him. Anything rather than take him home with me. That was unthinkable. Once home I’d never get out of the house again; there’d be nothing plausible enough I could tell Kate. A couple of drinks now and I’d be able to get rid of him at closing time.
“Well, we’d better not do that,” I said. “But I suppose I’ve got time for a quick jar.” I forced a smile. “As you say, it’s not every day of the week this kind of thing happens.”
PLENDER
The Ferry Boat was full of Hoo-ray Henrys. It always was and it always would be. The kind of local the Hoo-rays referred to as Their Little Pub on the River. As we pushed our way through the mass in the saloon to get to the snug it appeared that quite a few of the Hoo-rays were on terms with Knott. It didn’t surprise me. Knott was the type to aspire to that kind of jolly group.
There was a bloke and his bird in the snug which meant there was just enough room for both of us to get in.
I was lucky enough to get a barman straight away.
“Well,” I said, “what’s it going to be, Peter?”
His face was the colour of a perch’s belly.
“Er . . . do you mind if I have a Scotch?” he said.
“Have what you like,” I said. “Why not make it a large one as time’s getting on?”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind,” he said.
No, I bet you bloody wouldn’t, I thought.
I ordered the drinks and turned back to face him.
“Peter Knott,” I said, looking him up and down. “So come on . . . Give. What’ve you been up to the last fifteen years?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He’d been looking at something somewhere in the middle-distance of his mind, something that had caused him to turn even greyer. I could imagine how he must be feeling; the reality of what had happened to him must have been washing over him like waves of nausea. I smiled to myself but outwardly the smile appeared as though I was trying to chivvy up his memory.
“Come on, the life story. How I made my first million and all that.”
He took a drink.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, nothing much really. Art College after school . . .”
“Yes, I heard that was what you’d done. My mam sometimes saw yours down the town. When was it you moved house? Fifty-four?”
“About that.”
“That made the difference, of course.”
“What?”
“To keeping in contact; that’s how we lost touch.”
“Oh. Yes.”
He took another drink.
“And?” I said.
He swallowed, hard, and it wasn’t just because of the drink.
“I took photography at College. After that I went down to London for a few years.”
“So what made you come back up here? Weren’t the bright lights bright enough?”
“I got offered this contract that was too good to turn down—Sid?” He snatched at the barman’s arm. “Sid, two more large ones, please.”
“Coming up, Mr. Knott.”
“What contract was this?” I asked.
“What? The contract. Yes. The contract.” He was beginning to fray really badly. “Well, my father-in-law, he gave me this contract to do his catalogue. Comes out twice a year.”
“Catalogue?”
“For his business. He’s in the mail order business. He sends out a catalogue twice a year.”
“And you take the pictures?”
“Yes.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes, nearly all of them.”
“This catalogue,” I said. “It’s one of those big thick ones with everything from household goods through to fashions and that.”
He nodded.
“And you take
all
the pictures?”
He nodded again.
“What, of all the birds and that as well?”
He tried hard to smile and nod this time.
“You lucky old sod. What a job. Photographing bird after bird, day after day.”
He grasped the fresh drinks and just remembered to pass me mine before he began to go to work on his whisky.
“Actually,” I said, “I must tell you. Quite funny really. Mam used to get one of those catalogues when I was a lad, still does for all I know. But anyway, I used to think it was the most incredible thing out because it had all these pictures of birds in their brassiéres and their corsets and that. I used to think it was great. Spent hours on the can with it until Mam got wise and belted me round the garden. Funny. Still, I expect you see so much of it you just don’t notice. It must be—”
“You haven’t told me about yourself,” he said, his face sagging and desperate. “What’s happened to you?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I said. “I bought myself out in fifty-nine. Took some doing, getting the money together. Luckily there was some compensation for me mam’s accident so I used that.”
“I heard about that. I’m sorry.”
“Long time ago.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m a detective,” I said.
He nearly fell apart.
“A detective?”
“Private Investigator. Just like on the pictures. It’s a laugh, isn’t it?”
“What? I mean—”
“I know what you’re going to say; either how do you get to be a detective, or what does a detective do. It’s always one or the other.”
“No, it’s just that it’s so unexpected. You, of all people.”
I shrugged.
“You pick up the chips wherever they fall,” I said.
The barman began calling time.
“I’ll see if I can get us another quick one,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I can’t. I must be on my way. Kate’ll really be worried by now.”
“Come on,” I said. “You’ve time for a quick one. Tell you what, if you want an alibi, why don’t I pop home with you now. Corroborate the evidence, so to speak? And meet the missus into the bargain.”
“Well, I really think it’s a bit too late,” he said. “Under the circumstances . . ..”
“Okay,” I said. “Fine. So what shall I do? Pop round and see you one night next week?”
“Er . . . yes. Fine. One night next week.”
“Which one?”
“Oh. Any night. It doesn’t matter.”
“It might to your missus. Better set a date.”
“All right. Friday. Friday night.”
“Great. What time?”
“Time?”