An Air That Kills (30 page)

The beast retreated, taking its hot, masculine smell away with it. She heard its soft footfalls on the stairs and the squeaks it made. She would have liked to scream and scream but there was no one to hear except the beast. She had thought that she was safe now, but of course there could never be any safety; there would always be a beast waiting. Her emotions bubbled inside her, and each bubble burst with a silent scream. She lay there, waiting and listening. The sounds diminished in volume. Eventually, even the creaking stopped. She could hear only the wind in the trees and her own breathing. The hot-water bottles were cold.

Tonight she had been lucky. The beast had apparently shown mercy. But she remembered from before that you could never be sure that it was not a terrible trick, that the beast would not return. The beast might still be lurking in the darkness, waiting for the right moment.

Antonia sat up in bed. She swung her legs down to the floor. The cold air chilled the skin of her legs. She found her slippers and padded across to the doorway. She flicked down the light switch. The room filled with harsh, blinding light.

Nothing happned. The beast did not pounce. For the first time, Antonia entertained the possibility that she had imagined, or even dreamt the whole thing. But her bedroom door was definitely ajar. She was sure that she'd shut it before getting into bed or as sure as she could be. Perhaps the catch had failed to engage fully and the wind had blown the door open. Or perhaps the beast had left the door ajar as a sign that he would return.

Whimpering softly, Antonia dragged a chair across the room and rammed it against the door. She pulled the dressing table to join the chair. She tugged the heavy bedstead out from the wall and pushed it so its head was resting against the chest of drawers. She was as safe as she could make herself though that would never be safe enough. She looked in the mirror of the dressing table and saw a white face with huge dark eyes.

Leaving the light on, she got back into bed. The two sleeping tablets were on the bedside table. She swallowed them with the help of water. She lay down, and waited.

For a long time, everything remained the same. Her muscles were still tight and her mind would not rest. The tablets weren't strong enough, or perhaps the hospital had given her father placebos. She wanted to go to the lavatory but she did not dare leave the safety of her room. She had thought that the past was safely locked away, but now the beast had reappeared and unlocked it.

At last, the drug began to take hold. At first she thought she was imagining it. The effect came in waves, ebbing and flowing. Gradually a pleasant sense of helplessness slid over her. The barbiturates made her feel as if she were in a lift going down and down into the bowels of the earth. There was nothing she could do, even if she'd wanted, other than sink into the welcoming darkness. The tablets blunted all emotions – joy, sorrow, anger and despair. Death must be like this, she thought, when everything has its true value, which is nothing.

She felt very peaceful. She was puzzled, too. The beast had come to her tonight. But how could that be possible? The beast was dead.

Chapter Three

On Sunday, breakfast at the Bull Hotel was a subdued affair. The solitary waitress moved to and fro between the tables as though there were an invisible yoke across her shoulders. Carn sat at one table, Yateley at another.

As Carn was contemplating the grey interior of a boiled egg, the manager came into the dining room. He smoothed both wings of his RAF moustache and advanced, hesitantly and by a circuitous route, towards Carn's table.

Yateley waylaid him. ‘Could you have my bill made up? I want to leave immediately after breakfast.'

‘Yes, of course, sir.' The manager added mechanically, ‘I hope you have enjoyed your stay.'

Yateley did not reply. The manager edged closer to Carn's table. Carn looked up from his book, and their eyes met in the big mirror.

‘I've had them bring your bags down. Mr James,' the manager said hurriedly, looking down at the carpet. ‘They're in reception.'

Carn stared up at him. ‘I'll collect them later. Around lunch time, perhaps.'

‘But I understood from Inspector Thornhill—'

‘Do you know,' Carn interrupted, ‘if you dropped this egg, it would bounce?'

‘Yes, indeed,' the manager said. ‘An amusing thought, eh?'

‘But I'm not laughing, am I? See if they can do me one with the white hard and the yolk runny. All right?'

Chapter Four

Edith heard her husband whistling as he came downstairs. He opened the kitchen door and the children squirmed with anticipation. The parent who rarely put in an appearance had an unfair advantage over the one who was always there.

Richard Thornhill was smiling as he came into the room. He dropped a kiss on Edith's hair, and she smelt Palmolive shaving cream. He sat down opposite her and began to eat his egg. He was wearing his best suit because they were all going to St John's for the Remembrance Day service.

While they were eating, the children fired questions at their father. They wanted to know how they would spend the rest of the day after lunch. Thornhill promised them a drive in the car.

‘We could go and have a look at the forest,' he said, his eyes meeting Edith's. ‘If we're lucky we might get a bit of sun and the kids can run around. The leaves should be worth looking at.'

Something had happened, Edith knew, something that had relaxed the tension between them. The strain was still there, but it had slackened.

Richard finished his egg and took a slice of toast. David and Elizabeth squabbled over who should pass him the marmalade. He looked across the table at Edith.

‘I met a Member of Parliament last night,' he said.

‘The Lydmouth one?'

He shook his head. ‘Chap called Yateley, Oliver Yateley. He was staying at the Bull. I think he's on the radio, sometimes.'

‘I know. He's got a nice voice. Touch of Yorkshire in it.'

‘Which party?'

‘Labour, I think. He's only a backbencher. He was on the wireless the other night, in fact. They were talking about the abolition of capital punishment.'

Richard grunted. ‘What does he know about it? He's probably never met a murderer in his life.'

Edith frowned at him: she felt that the children were too young to hear this sort of conversation. ‘What was he doing at the Bull? And how did you come to meet him?'

‘He was visiting a friend. Then he had a little too much to drink and one of Lydmouth's worthies decided he needed teaching a lesson. I happened to be passing and I had to sort them out.'

‘An MP? You'd think he'd be more careful about that sort of thing – if only as a matter of self-preservation.'

‘I suppose an MP can be as stupid as anyone else when he's had a few drinks. It was all rather petty.'

At that moment, the telephone began to ring, shattering the fragile truce. David, who was old enough to be aware of the implications, screwed up his face. Edith pushed back her chair and stood up.

‘I'll answer it,' she said abruptly.

She went out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her. The telephone was in what they called the dining room, though at present it lacked a dining table. She picked up the handset and recited their still unfamiliar number into the receiver.

‘Mrs Thornhill? It's headquarters, Sergeant Fowles speaking. Could I have a word with Mr Thornhill, please?'

‘I'll fetch him.'

She put the phone down. Anger surged through her, surprising her with its violence. Yet again the job was going to take Richard away from them. Yet again the children would spend all day whining for their father. Yet again she and the children would sit down for their Sunday lunch and pretend they were a complete family. Before their marriage, Richard had told her that it wasn't much fun being a policeman's wife. At the time she hadn't believed him.

He was already in the hall. As he passed her, he murmured, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's not enough,' she said.

Chapter Five

The police car turned into Victoria Road and pulled up outside the Thornhills' house. Thornhill, who had been waiting at the window, gave David and Elizabeth a hug apiece and dropped them on to the sofa. ‘Goodbye,' he called down the hall. Edith was washing up. There was no answer.

He was already wearing his overcoat. Picking up his hat and umbrella, he went out to the car. Kirby was in front with the uniformed driver. Thornhill got into the back seat. The radio chattered quietly.

‘Morning, sir,' Kirby said. ‘Rum business, isn't it?'

Thornhill waved at the two pale faces at the bottom of the sitting-room window; their features were blurred because their breath had misted up the glass. The driver let out the clutch and the car moved smoothly away.

‘Any further news?' Thornhill said.

Kirby shook his head. ‘Not really. There wasn't a WPC available, so the wife of the local constable has gone in to sit with Miss Harcutt. Oh, and Mr Williamson says he'll be along after church.'

‘Does Dr Bayswater know?'

‘Yes, sir. He'll join us there as soon as he can.'

Thornhill settled into his seat. Kirby's keenness exasperated him. So did the man's fresh, rested face. The sergeant was due to be on duty today in any case.

‘Sir? I saw Carn and Charlie Meague last night.'

‘Where?'

‘They were drinking in the Bathurst Arms. I don't think they saw me. We were in the lounge, you see, me and the girl, having a drink after the pictures, and they were in the public. I just caught a glimpse of them when I went to the gents.'

‘What were they doing?'

‘Just talking. Judging by their faces, it was business rather than pleasure.'

‘What time was this?'

‘About nine thirty.'

‘I had a word with Carn last night – before you saw him – while he was having his dinner. He should be leaving Lydmouth today.'

They were nearly at Edge Hill. Two hundred yards before the green, they passed a knot of men gossiping and smoking outside the hut which served as the local headquarters of the British Legion. One or two were in uniform, but most wore dark civilian clothes. Thornhill had a confused impression of flat caps and bowlers, poppies and medals. One man had shouldered his umbrella like a rifle.

The car turned into the drive of Chandos Lodge. The local constable had had the sense to get the gates open. He was waiting for them at the front door, a thin man with a worried face, probably on the verge of retirement; he had forgotten to do up one of his tunic buttons. Kirby introduced him as Lincoln.

‘I tried not to touch anything, sir. But it's very hard to know what's been taken. The place is in a terrible state, but then it usually is. My wife knows Maggie Forbes, she helps out with the cleaning, and she says—'

‘Where's Miss Harcutt?' Thornhill interrupted.

‘She's in the kitchen with the wife. I didn't know where to put her. Her dad's room is the only one with a fire. The wife made her some tea.'

Kirby and Lincoln followed Thornhill into the hall. It was very cold.

‘I opened the doors and windows,' Lincoln said. ‘There was a terrible smell of gas when I first got here.'

‘Who called you?' Thornhill asked.

‘Miss Harcutt, sir.' He shook his head. ‘Near out of her mind, she was. Ran across the green to our house – she just had an overcoat over her night things and wellingtons on her feet.'

They reached Harcutt's room. Lincoln opened the door and stood aside to allow Thornhill to precede him. The room still smelled faintly of gas. There were other smells too, of alcohol and incontinence and old age. Thornhill walked slowly towards the fireplace, taking care not to brush against anything.

Major Harcutt was slumped in the armchair in front of the fireplace. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. There was a damp patch on his trousers. Apart from the colour of his skin, he looked as he had in life.

His face was bright pink. Thornhill had expected that. Coal gas contained up to ten per cent carbon monoxide, which fastened on to haemoglobin, the red pigment of the blood, and prevented it from combining with oxygen. There would have been plenty of time during the long winter night for Harcutt to absorb a fatal dose. Alcohol had probably helped to immobilise him: there was still half an inch of whisky in the glass and the bottle on the table was a third full.

Thornhill touched one of the veined hands. It was cold. Harcutt wasn't officially dead until the doctor said he was. But the life had already left this mass of flesh and bone and the inexorable processes of decay were at work. None of the policemen needed to be told that.

For a moment, Thornhill stood still. His eyes darted about the room. The faded carpet between Harcutt's chair and the bureau was dotted with poppies. The sash window was wide open at the top and the curtains moved gently in the wind. He noted the bottle of sleeping tablets on the mantelpiece.

‘Who turned off the gas?' he asked Lincoln.

‘Wasn't me, sir. First thing I checked when I got here.'

‘What exactly did Miss Harcutt tell you?'

‘Not a lot. And she weren't making much sense, either. It's the shock, look. Kept muttering about gas. She must have smelled it when she came downstairs, come in here and turned it off.'

Thornhill could see too many possibilities for comfort. He looked at Kirby. ‘I want the full treatment. Get on to headquarters. We'll also need to keep out the sightseers.' He turned back to Lincoln. ‘How many men would you need to seal off the grounds?'