This Way Out (12 page)

‘I can't do that – Christine would think it very odd.'

‘Well, you can't leave it at home to raise an alarm. You'll have to get rid of it some other way.'

As he drove away from Saintsbury, Derek realized that he wouldn't be able to go home that night. How could he hope to behave normally towards Christine and her mother when he knew what was going to happen the following evening?

And if he didn't behave normally, his wife would be sure to remember, afterwards, that something had been wrong. He had been so vehement about getting rid of Enid that Christine might even begin to wonder whether he knew anything about her death.

Not, of course, that she'd ever say so to the police. The bond between them was too strong, thank God, for him to have any worries on that score. He wanted to give her no cause for suspicion simply because he loved her. It was important to him to retain not merely her loyalty but her affection and trust.

Derek supposed that he still had an afternoon's work to do, but he couldn't possibly give his mind to it. He drove to Colchester and back just to fill in the time, then returned to the office after the rest of the staff had left. He shrugged and tore up an urgent memo about an appointment he had forgotten to keep – too late to do anything about it now – signed his letters, and then telephoned Christine.

To explain his overnight absence from home on a Friday, he invented a colleague's retirement party for that evening, and an end-of-season hockey match he wanted to watch in Cambridge the following morning. He might as well enjoy the party, he said, and spend the night at a small private hotel he sometimes used, just round the corner from the office.

‘Not sure what time I'll be home tomorrow,' he concluded. ‘I'm bound to meet people I know at the match, and there'll be a get-together afterwards. Anyway, you're driving your mother over to Southwold for lunch with her friends, aren't you? If I'm not at home when you return, it'll be because I've taken Sam for a walk – I promised him a good long one this weekend. You all right, sweetheart? Drive very carefully. Love you. 'Bye.'

Derek had intended, when he dialled their number, to tell Christine that he would be taking her out to dinner the following evening. He hadn't forgotten. Something had made him hold back.

Now, with the working week over and all the offices empty except for the cleaners, he sat at his monitor staring blankly at the figures on the screen. He had thought he could use the evening profitably by writing an article on personal pension plans, to be distributed to major businesses in the region for publication in their house magazines. But the comparative tables of past and projected retirement benefits on a with-profits policy for an annual premium of £500, which showed that his own company's projections were based on an enviable track record, failed to hold his attention. His brief conversation with his wife had opened the floodgates in his mind, and anxiety had come pouring in.

To hell with Packer and his arrangements for an alibi! Derek realized that he couldn't possibly go out for a meal with Christine tomorrow evening, knowing that in their absence her mother was being suffocated. The food would choke him. Packer himself might be – was – evil enough to do such a thing; Derek wasn't.

That didn't mean the operation was off. Derek had no intention, now, of trying to back out. He was glad it was going to happen, eager to get it over. But he knew his own capabilities and he reserved the right to do things his own way.

He accepted that he had to find an alternative method of getting himself and Christine out of the Brickyard for the evening, and of establishing their presence elsewhere. It was
where
that was the problem. The Suffolk countryside offered little in the way of evening diversions, other than eating out.

True, there were cinemas in Yarchester and Ipswich, theatres in Yarchester and Saintsbury, and the concert hall at Aldeburgh. But since their marriage, the Cartwrights had gone to none of them. What with the distance and the winding Suffolk roads, their young family, and then of course the Laurie years, they had never considered the possibility of going out for an evening's entertainment. Christine would think it very strange if he were suddenly to suggest driving miles to see a film or a play about which they knew nothing. She would almost certainly refuse to go.

They could perhaps call on some friends … but that wouldn't work because he would still have the problem of making cheerful conversation while Christine's mother was being murdered.

No, a social evening of any kind was out of the question. He would be sure to betray his anxiety, and Christine wouldn't fail to notice it. Besides, his conscience wouldn't let him do anything that he would normally find enjoyable.

What was going to happen tomorrow evening was unequivocally wrong, and he didn't know how to live with himself through the hours leading up to it. He had thought that offering that bastard Packer the run of his home, and his prized possessions, would be sufficient in the way of expiation; but of course it wasn't.

He had come to realize that whatever he did to provide himself with an alibi would have to be unpleasant. The only way he could cope with the knowledge of Operation Brickyard was by putting himself through some form of punishment.

Derek switched off his monitor, locked up the office, and drove out of Cambridge through the April dusk. His company had block membership of the health and fitness club at the Post House hotel on the Histon road, but because he lived elsewhere and his job involved so much travelling he couldn't use it as often as he would like. Winter weekend hockey-refereeing helped to keep him fit, but tonight's stay in the city would for once give him an opportunity not just to swim but to make full use of the club's power-sport equipment.

Changing into the kit that he carried in the car on the off-chance, he began his work-out gradually. He warmed up on the exercise bicycle, then stepped on to the power jog, moving comfortably to begin with. As the speed increased he strode out, pounding grimly on and on until his chest hurt and his knees weakened and a stitch in his side brought him to a doubled-up, gasping stop.

Next, to the sit-up board. Lie down, feet higher than head; hook feet under padded bar, link hands at back of neck. Sit up.

Sit up
? God, easier said than done, at forty-four …
Try
to sit up, woofing at the ferocious pull on hamstrings and stomach muscles … Lie back and pant. Then gulp, take deep breath, grit teeth and try again. Sit … up, up, grunting with the effort. Collapse and gasp for mercy.

But give yourself none.
Think
why you're doing this. Think of Enid Long, whose coming death this is all about, and stop groaning over a bit of pain. Sit up – down – up – down until your body no longer responds to your will.

And then to the weight-lifting machine. Brace yourself, take the strain on biceps and shoulders and … lift. Yes of course it's torture. That's the idea. Keep going: lift, grunt, heave, sweat. Don't merely endure the pain,
welcome
it. Think of your involvement in Enid's murder, and don't let up until you're too exhausted to remember what you're punishing yourself for.

Derek slept that night as though he were dead.

When he woke, abruptly, in a cramped hotel bedroom, he wondered for a few moments which part of the region he was in, and what appointments he had that day. Then the ache in his body – just the one monstrous ache, in every muscle – reminded him what he had been doing the previous evening. And why.

He limped to the window, pulled back the curtains and looked out at the traffic moving along the glistening surface of the Chesterton Road, and at the willow-swept, rain-pocked river beyond. A wet Saturday morning. Enid's last.

The thought of her coming murder no longer had any capacity to move him. All his attention was concentrated on his arrangements for the day. He made a cup of instant coffee in his room, gulped it down black while he dressed, then left, scrupulously paying the bill with his personal credit card rather than his company charge card.

First, to get himself going again, he crossed the river by the footbridge and walked on Midsummer Common in the rain. Then he collected his car from outside the office, drove back to the Post House, and spent the morning at the health club. Not overdoing the exercises, because he needed to be fit for the day ahead, but putting himself through grim tests of will-power and endurance on the treadmill and in the swimming pool.

The only relaxation he allowed himself was for the benefit of his muscles. He spent five blank-minded minutes sitting up to his chin in the foaming grey water of the jacuzzi, while jets of water massaged his aching body. Then he showered, dressed, lunched sparely on a salad sandwich and a glass of Perrier, and left Cambridge for home.

He had timed his journey so as to be sure that Christine and her mother would have set off for Southwold before he returned. They had left the house in Sam's charge and when Derek opened the door the beagle, who hated to be alone, wriggled and barked and waved his rudder in an enthusiastic greeting.

While the dog, liberated, ran snuffling round the wet garden, Derek consulted the yellow page section of the telephone directory and made a few notes. Then he took Sam's lead and tartan collar from the coat-rack in the kitchen passage, locked up the house again, and called to the beagle. ‘Big walk, old boy?' he said, and the dog jumped eagerly into the car.

The Cartwrights' usual routes from Wyveling were south to Breckham Market, east to Yarchester, west to Saintsbury and Cambridge. On this occasion Derek took the minor road northwards, in the direction of the area of heath and forest where they had often taken Laurie for long walks with her dog.

Packer's cold instruction to ‘get rid' of the beagle had made sense; but how could you temporarily get rid of a pet without arousing your wife's suspicion? Fortunately, Derek had thought overnight of a solution that would not only keep Sam safely out of the way, but also occupy his own time until mid-evening – and, what's more, provide a good reason for any agitation he might show as the time for Enid's death drew near.

What he intended was simply to put the beagle in a boarding kennels for twenty-four hours. Not in a local one, of course, where he might be known by sight to one of the staff or another customer, but somewhere at least twenty miles away. Then, late in the afternoon, he could telephone Christine from a call-box saying he'd taken the dog for a walk in the forest and it had run off. He could then stay away from the Brickyard until after dark on the pretext of searching for Sam, and go out again next day to ‘find' him.

Christine would be upset, of course. Derek was sorry about that, but he saw no alternative. She wouldn't have long to dwell on the loss of the dog, though – the other events of the evening would soon take her mind off it. And when he ‘found'Sam for her, the relief would go some way towards helping her through the aftermath of her mother's death.

That aftermath was something Derek had made a point of not thinking about. What he was doing was entirely for Christine's benefit, and he preferred not to dwell on the fact that its immediate effect on her was bound to be shattering.

But, he argued in his head, it would be the unexpectedness of it that would shock her, not the death itself. After all, only a couple of days ago she had said that with a bit of luck her mother would be carried off quickly by a heart attack. Well, perhaps she hadn't actually said ‘with a bit of luck', but that was certainly what she'd implied.

Enid couldn't live for ever, Christine had definitely said that. And, surely, for an old woman to be smothered with a pillow as she slept – unknowingly, painlessly – would be an even more merciful way to go than a heart attack? He was confident, he told himself, that Christine would agree with him once she got over the initial shock.

He drove quickly along the narrow country roads, with Sam alert on the seat beside him, searching for the first address on his list. The rain, which had eased off in mid-morning, was now coming down seriously, hampering his search. But after an enquiry at a filling station and some splashy backing and turning, he found a roadside notice saying
Barn Farm Boarding Kennels and Cattery
.

An arrow pointed up a pot-holed track, with a thorn hedge on one side and a field of winter barley on the other, towards an isolated farmhouse. Yellowish surface water running off the field was using the track as a ditch. In other circumstances Derek would have taken one look and driven on, but today he saw the unprepossessing access to the farm as an advantage. The kennels were most unlikely to be full.

Hedged in at the end of the track was the former farmyard. Many of the outbuildings seemed to be tumbledown, and the yard itself was a wasteland of mud and knee-high nettles traversed by a concrete path splattered with poultry droppings. Wherever there was shelter, assorted poultry stood huddled against the driving rain. On the far side of the yard was the farmhouse, a bleak box of grey brick lidded with blue slate. All its doors and windows looked to be in need of a coat of paint.

Derek felt a moment's misgiving, on Sam's behalf. The beagle was old, and accustomed to every home comfort; he'd never been in a kennels in his life. Would he be properly looked after, in a run-down place like this? Would he be secure?

But it was only for one night. The dog had to be kept out of the way while Operation Brickyard was in progress, and Derek felt too keyed-up to go searching the countryside for a five-star boarding kennels. This would have to do.

At the entrance to the yard was a farm gate (Please
keep this gate shut
) between two still-leafless ash trees. Derek parked on a cinder patch just outside the gate.
Please leave your pet in the car until you have booked in
advised another notice, pointing to a small wooden hut just inside the gate labelled
Reception. Please Ring
, said a notice on the hut, indicating the whereabouts of the bell.