The Dead Side of the Mike (20 page)

By daylight it just looked decrepit and dingy. After dark, as Danny Klinger must have seen it, it would have had an air of menace.

But what had Danny Klinger seen when he got there? More important,
who
had he seen when he got there? Maybe it was Keith Nicholls. Maybe his murderer.

Or perhaps the rendezvous was never kept. If Keith had been at Broadcasting House, feeding clues to the unwitting Dave Sheridan, possibly even organising his wife's death, then he couldn't have got to the old mill before Klinger.

Charles decided to leave further conjecture until he had found out what the shed had to offer.

As he approached the door, which slouched from one hinge, he decided that it would probably have nothing to offer. Whatever confrontation had taken place there twenty-five days before, it was unlikely to have left any trace. Words of passion or confession, like all words, vanish as they are spoken. A forensic scientist might be able to prove the presence of individuals in a given place at a given time, but, without the premeditated fixing of recording apparatus, no one could know what they said there.

So Charles went into the shed expecting nothing. He felt hungry. That pub, the Crabtree, had looked rather nice. Maybe they could get some lunch there. A couple of pints, bread and cheese, a pie maybe.

The shed was damp and suddenly dark after the brightness of the sun. It was a minute or two before he could see anything. When he did, it was the usual detritus of such uninhabited places – unwholesome-looking scraps of paper, a couple of beer cans, a broken bottle, a shrivelled condom . . . Ugh, to think that anyone would choose this damp, urine-scented hole to make love in.

Everything had been there a long time. There was nothing that looked out of place, no clue, nothing. Oh well, the treasure hunt had been fun. Deep down he had known that there wasn't going to be any treasure. Maybe there had been some on the night that Andrea Gower died, but by now someone else had come and claimed it.

‘Are you all right in there?' Frances's voice sounded distant and still flatteringly tinged with anxiety.

‘Yes, there's nothing here. Let's go and get some lunch at the pub. I'll just have one more look and . . .'

His eyes swept round cursorily. They snagged on something on a crossbeam by the window. He hadn't noticed it before, because the colour of its brown paper wrapping was so close to that of the woodwork.

A parcel. About twelve inches square. Wrapped in brown paper, neatly sellotaped.

That hadn't been there a long time. Only about twenty-five days, Charles reckoned.

Maybe Danny Klinger hadn't come to the old mill to meet someone. Maybe his role had just been that of a delivery boy.

Charles stepped forward across the wooden floor towards the window. He reached out to the parcel.

As he did so, he heard the creak and split of wood. At the same time the floor beneath him tipped crazily. The sound of the waterfall increased as if at the turn of a switch.

He saw the water, saw the timbers of the shed wall only inches from his face. He flung out his arms towards a crosspiece, but was too late to reach it as the weight of his body bore him down.

FRANCES GOT HER driving practice; Charles was too shaken and, after four restorative pints in the Crabtree, too drunk, to be safely in charge of a car.

He had been lucky. The fall into the water had only jolted and bruised him. There was a slight scrape on one shin, where it had met the dead bicycle, but nothing worse. Frances thought he ought to go to hospital and get a tetanus jab, because the water in the stream had looked pretty noxious, but Charles said he'd be okay and promised to go to his doctor in town if he had any trouble from the wound. (He omitted to mention that he wasn't registered with a doctor in town or anywhere else; since he'd left Frances, he'd never got round to it; she had always dealt with that sort of domestic detail.)

Before adjourning to the Crabtree (where he had sat, soggy and clay-streaked, attracting conjecture but no comment from the phlegmatic regulars), he had had a good look round the shed. And, in spite of his discomfort, what he found there excited him.

For the first time, he had proof that his suspicions were justified. Here was definite evidence that the deaths of Andrea Gower and Danny Klinger were connected. Not quite enough to prove that Keith Nicholls was responsible for both of them, but at least a starting point, from which a case could be built.

Because closer examination of the shed made it quite clear that it had been booby-trapped. The wood of the floorboards was splitting and rotten, but would probably still have been strong enough to support a man's weight. What ensured that they didn't was the neat line of saw marks through them at the point where they joined the far wall. New saw-marks, too. There were traces of sawdust and the sheared wood had not yet had time to discolour, still revealing a yellow core.

The booby-trap had been designed for Danny Klinger. As Charles's survival had proved, it wasn't an infallible murder method, but Charles had been lucky. He had been there in the daylight. In the darkness, that sudden descent would have been infinitely more dangerous. Nor would Klinger have had Frances on hand to pull him up the steep bank of the stream. And in his customary state of inebriation, he would have been less capable of saving himself. At midnight in such a deserted spot, he would have had no chance of summoning help by shouting. No, it wasn't an infallible murder method, but Charles reckoned Klinger would have been lucky to survive it.

Or maybe Keith's plan was just to immobilise his quarry and then arrive in person later and finish him off.

Whatever had been intended, it was clear that it had failed. Klinger had either not reached the end of the treasure hunt or, once there, had become suspicious and not entered the shed. The fact that the brown paper parcel was still there suggested the former was more likely.

The parcel was the most baffling element in the whole set-up. Once he had recovered from the shock of his fall and confirmed the sabotage of the floorboards, Charles set about recovering it. Frances held him round the waist (with frequent admonitions that he should be careful), as he groped for the package with two sticks.

It was difficult. He didn't want to knock it off its perch and send it down to the soaking he had just received. He wanted the contents intact.

As he fished, he conjectured what those contents might be. It was now clear that his earlier hypothesis, that Klinger had been delivering, was incorrect; he had come to collect, and the saboteur had reckoned he would want the contents of the parcel sufficiently to abandon caution as he reached for them.

Obviously the contents were related to some sort of crime or there was no point in the whole elaborate charade of secrecy. But what crime? Transferring loot from a robbery seemed a possibility. But the fact that Klinger was American limited what that loot could be. He was going to have problems getting stolen jewellery or family silver through customs. Pictures might be easier, and the shape of the package fitted that conjecture. But most likely of all was drugs. That sorted well with Keith's Alternative Society image and the connection of both parties with the pop music business.

As Charles finally got a grip with his long chop-sticks and lifted the parcel, its lightness also supported that explanation. Gingerly, he lifted it over the void to safety.

They sat on the grass outside the shed to examine their treasure. Charles reached to slit the Sellotape.

‘Of course,' Frances cautioned, ‘that might be part of the booby-trap too.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A bomb, maybe.' He hesitated.

‘To make assurance doubly sure,' Frances continued.

‘Oh, come on. It's not heavy enough for a bomb. There can't be any metal parts in there.'

‘Plastic explosives?' Frances murmured.

‘Don't be ridiculous. If he was out to blow Klinger up, then why bother to saw through the floorboards? No, I'd stake my life that this isn't a bomb.'

‘Apposite last words, Charles,' murmured Frances.

He slit the Sellotape carefully with his fingernail and opened the parcel.

Inside were about a dozen sheets of corrugated cardboard, each some twelve inches square.

They were silent as he inspected his find. Each sheet was identical. There was nothing written on any of them. Charles raised them in turn to the light and looked along their corrugations. ‘See right through. There doesn't seem to be anything in there.'

‘What were you expecting?'

‘Drugs, maybe?'

‘Might be stuck between the layers.'

‘Might be.' He split one of the sheets. ‘Looks just like glue to me.' Inspection of the others was equally unrewarding.

‘What do you make of it, Charles?'

‘I can't be sure, Frances, but I think we could have unearthed an international cardboard-smuggling ring.'

Though it was sunny, Frances had put on the car heater in an attempt to dry Charles out a bit. Radio Four purred urbanely from the speakers, discussing new provisions being made for single-parent families.

‘I'm sorry, love, I'm afraid I'm making rather a mess of your swish upholstery.'

‘Oh, don't worry about that. It'll sponge off; it said so in the brochure. Are you very uncomfortable?'

‘Not too bad. It's probably useful acclimatisation for the incontinence which will no doubt strike me in later life.'

‘Charming.' A pause. ‘Do you think a lot about getting old, Charles?'

‘I am old.'

‘I mean old old.'

‘Yes, I think about it.'

‘So do I.'

‘Does it worry you?'

‘Not really. It seems pretty logical. Menopause sorted out, it's the natural next step.'

‘Yes.'

‘The only thing that worries me about it is being alone, completely alone.'

‘You won't be alone, Frances.' He could feel her waiting for him to elaborate. As always, he evaded the issue. ‘You're not the sort of person to be alone.'

They were silent. Radio Four talked earnestly about the social problems of the handicapped.

Charles broke the silence. Inevitably with a change of subject. ‘The only thing I can think, Frances, is that the parcel was a dummy.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That the would-be murderer made up that bundle of cardboard to look like whatever it was Klinger was expecting. Shrewd idea. Klinger would reach for it and be caught in the trap, and if anyone else found it, it wouldn't be incriminating evidence. They'd be as puzzled by it as we are.'

‘That sounds logical. Yes, I accept that.'

‘Good. The thing I can't work out, though, is why Klinger never got there. He must have known the signals, and yet I'm sure he never arrived at that shed. If he had done, he would have either gone through the floor or taken the package.'

‘Hmm. Maybe he got lost with the clues. Some of them were pretty obscure.
Hands Across the Sea
, I mean, really.'

‘Yes, but it was a game he was used to playing. I'd have thought, if we could get it right first time . . .'

‘He was in a foreign country.'

‘True.'

‘Charles, why did you put the parcel back?'

‘It's evidence. I wanted to leave it all as far as possible as it was, so that if it ever gets to the point of bringing the police in –'

‘Why don't you go to the police now?'

‘I've nothing to offer them. And I have some experience of how they react to fanciful theories expounded by enthusiastic amateurs.'

‘Yes, but you could have been killed by that booby-trap. I mean –'

‘But I wasn't killed by it,' he said firmly.

‘You mean you're going on investigating?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Next time you might really be killed.'

‘Save me from getting old and incontinent.'

Frances sighed with resignation. ‘What do you do next?'

‘Well, I've checked out the trail Danny Klinger should have taken the night he didn't die; I suppose the next thing is to check out his route the night he
did
die.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘I still wish I could sort out why it didn't work the first time. Where did he lose the trail?'

‘We turn off at this junction, don't we, Charles?'

‘Yes, we want the M23 towards Sutton.'

‘Oh, I don't fancy doing that spaghetti junction bit.'

‘You don't have to this way, only in the other direction. And, incidentally, Frances, you are allowed to go at above forty on motorways.'

‘I'm driving, Charles. I choose the speed.'

‘Fine.'

She negotiated the South London suburbs well. Charles, full of beer, dozed. Radio Four earnestly discussed the difficulties of Senior Citizens in supermarkets.

He awoke with a start to hear Frances swearing.

‘What's the matter?' He peered blearily round him. They were in slow-moving traffic under Hammersmith flyover.

‘The bloody radio's packed in. I don't know, I've only had the thing three days and . . .'

Charles turned up the volume knob. Nothing. ‘No, it seems completely gone.'

The car in front of Frances moved ahead and she jerked the Renault forward in annoyance. As she did so, the radio suddenly blared forth its concern with huge volume. Charles hastened to turn it down.

‘Oh, thank God it's working.'

‘Yes, Frances, not only that, you have also told me why Danny Klinger never got to the first rendezvous.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘The radio only stopped because the flyover cut out the signal. We weren't aware of that problem on the way down, because we were listening on cassette. But Klinger was listening to a live broadcast. So if he got held up under a bridge or something – like, say, under the spaghetti junction between the M23 and M25 because of road works – then he could easily have missed one of the clues. Couldn't he?'