An Air That Kills (31 page)

‘One for the front, one for the back gates and maybe a third man to keep an eye on the back wall. You can climb over in places.'

Thornhill turned back to Kirby. ‘Got that? Three uniformed men. Lincoln, you'd better take me along to the kitchen.'

Mrs Lincoln looked up when her husband ushered Thornhill into the kitchen. Her relief was obvious. She and Antonia Harcutt were sitting at the kitchen table. There was a pot of tea between them. Antonia sat with her hands on her lap, staring straight in front of her. She was still wearing her overcoat over her dressing gown and wellington boots on her feet.

‘I'm Inspector Thornhill. We met on Friday afternoon, if you remember. I came to ask your father something.'

Antonia's eyes did not move.

‘Won't even drink her tea,' Mrs Lincoln said in a loud, chiding whisper. ‘She's like my brother's youngest was after the bomb hit their house. Their doctor said, the best thing—'

‘Thank you, Mrs Lincoln.'

The flow of words stopped. Thornhill drew up a chair and sat down. He glanced behind him at Lincoln and gestured with his eyes. The constable understood and left the room.

‘Antonia, I need to know what happened.'

She licked her lips. A line of dried dribble ran down from one corner of her mouth.

Mrs Lincoln leant forward, her round face lined with concern. ‘Perhaps there's someone she'd like with her. Is there, my love?'

Thornhill gave Mrs Lincoln a nod. ‘Of course. Antonia, can we arrange for someone to come and be with you? A friend perhaps, or a relation?'

She looked at him with blank, dead eyes.

He persevered: ‘What about Mrs Wemyss-Brown? She's an old school friend, isn't she?'

At last there was a flicker of emotion in Antonia's face. ‘No – not Charlotte. I don't want her.'

‘Surely there's someone we can fetch?'

Antonia frowned. ‘Do you think Jill Francis would come?'

Chapter Six

It was the hammering that wrenched Charlie Meague out of deep sleep. At first he thought it was the blood pounding in his head, and with each thump his headache stabbed a little deeper.

The banging continued relentlessly. He rose a little further from the depths of sleep. Now he knew that the banging came from outside him. Someone was using a hammer and nails.

Hammer and nails
. The words brought to mind the box in the cesspit at the Rose in Hand. Now there was a question: why hadn't the lid been nailed to the box? Answer: so that the rats and the damp and the cats could get in there more quickly and hasten the work of corruption.

Oh, Christ, someone was at the door. Suddenly, Charlie was fully awake and his memories of the night flooded into his mind. His first thought was that the police had come for him. It was against reason, but fear had its own logic. He scrambled out of bed. Apart from his boots, he was fully dressed. He stood to one side of the window, pushed the edge of the curtain up an inch and stared through the crack at the street. At the kerb was parked a Wolseley, its maroon paintwork caked with grime. The sight of the car gave birth to another fear which grew rapidly and elbowed the first out of the way.

Charlie stumbled down the stairs. His head and his heart thumped painfully in time with each other. On his way home last night he had swallowed nearly half a bottle of the whisky he had stolen from the King's Head. He padded across the floor and unbolted the front door.

Bayswater pushed past him and came into the house.

‘What is it, Doc?'

‘Your mother took a turn for the worse yesterday evening.'

‘How's she feeling now?'

‘There's no easy way to put this.'

Charlie swayed. ‘What are you saying?'

‘She's dead.'

‘No. No – she was fine, yesterday. I saw her myself.'

Bayswater frowned at him. ‘I'm sorry, but there you are. The hospital did everything they could.' His eyes roved round the cold, damp room. ‘She wasn't a well woman. No resistance left.'

Charlie sat down on the arm of his mother's chair. ‘When did it happen?'

‘Late yesterday evening. I tried to get hold of you, but you weren't in.'

Charlie said nothing. He felt the cold of the flagstones seeping through the thick wool of his socks. He noticed that there wasn't any kindling – he would have to chop some before he could light the fire. Bayswater's eyebrows were grey and bushy and some of the hairs hung down in front of his eyes. Charlie wondered whether his mother had any money ferreted away. It would all be his now. He hoped she had ironed his shirt before going into hospital.

‘There are things you'll have to do, and decisions you'll have to make,' Bayswater said. ‘You'll have to register the death and get in touch with an undertaker. Did your mother have insurance?'

Charlie shrugged.

‘I expect you can find out. You can talk to the clergyman, too, assuming she went to church or chapel. He'll help. That's what they're paid to do.'

‘It doesn't make sense. I told you – she was all right when I saw her yesterday.'

‘She wasn't all right. Some people go up a little before they go down. It's the way it happens. Maybe she made an effort because you were there.'

Charlie said nothing. He stared at the ashes of the fire.

After a while, Bayswater said, ‘Well, I must be going. Take my advice, keep busy. Come and see me if you need anything.'

Charlie nodded slowly. Bayswater let himself out of the house. Charlie listened. He heard the Wolseley's engine starting and the car drawing away.

‘The silly cow,' Charlie said aloud.

His voice frightened him: it sounded strange and unnatural in the emptiness of the house. Silence was safer. He stayed where he was on the arm of the chair. Time drifted on, carrying him with it. He didn't feel unhappy, merely numb. Also, he wished his head would stop hurting so much.

There were two taps on the door. Charlie got up. Ma Halleran, he thought – she'd know. The hospital must have tried to phone her the previous evening. And now the old bitch was coming to gloat and ferret.
Piss off, you bleeding vulture
. He opened the door.

Jimmy Carn smiled up at him. ‘Hello, Charlie. How's tricks?'

Chapter Seven

There should have been thirty-three men outside the hut, but there were only thirty-two. They stood chatting, waiting until it was time to form up. It would take them less than ten minutes to march to the war memorial on the green; after the wreath-laying ceremony, they would march on to church where the service was due to begin at ten thirty. Freddy, the Veales' dog, moved purposefully among their legs, sampling the wide range of smells.

Old John Veale, who had a bugle on a cord strung round his neck, lit another Woodbine; he'd left his right arm at Gallipoli, but had long since learned to cope without it.

‘Did you see the police car?' he asked Terry Forbes who had only just arrived.

‘No, Mr Veale. Where was it going?'

‘Harcutt's place.'

Terry grinned. ‘Indecent exposure, I shouldn't wonder. Either that or drunk and disorderly.'

‘Ah. You haven't heard, then?'

‘I soon will.' Terry was assembling the collapsible flagstaff that carried the Legion's standard. ‘If you don't tell me now, my mum will tell me after church.'

‘Must have been between half eight and nine,' Veale went on, ignoring this. ‘The old woman said Antonia was running across the green – in her nightie, can you believe? She went into the Lincolns' house. Five minutes later, she came back out with Lincoln and his missus. And they all went back to Harcutt's place. Haven't been seen since.' Veale, knowing that there was no longer any risk of losing his audience's attention, paused to remove a shred of tobacco from his lip. ‘Maybe twenty minutes later, along comes the police car. Plainclothes men. You know what that means.'

‘Detectives?'

Veale nodded. ‘Something serious going on. You mark my words, young Terry.'

Forbes raised the standard and settled the base of the staff into the sling he wore across his chest. ‘Seems odd without old Harcutt fussing around.'

‘A lot more restful, you mean. That man's too fond of playing bloody soldiers.' Veale pulled out his watch. He raised his voice slightly: ‘Time's getting on. We'd better form up.'

The men shuffled into three lines. Everyone was elaborately casual. Former officers stood side by side with former privates. There was no attempt to put the shortest on the left and the tallest on the right. Veale threw away his cigarette and stroked the bugle as though it were a live thing.

‘By the left,' he said quietly, almost apologetically. ‘Quick march.'

The Edge Hill branch of the British Legion marched off towards the green. At their head was the standard bearer with his collapsible flagstaff. As they marched, something curious happened: they fell into step and their boots rang in time on the road; no one swung his arms high, but for a few moments they were no longer civilians. No one talked. Behind them were three small boys pretending to march, their demeanour hovering between mockery and respect. Behind the boys came Freddy the dog.

When the marchers reached the green, they swung left towards the war memorial. A moment later, Dr Bayswater's Wolseley turned into the drive of Chandos Lodge.

Chapter Eight

‘This really won't do, old man,' Carn said, scratching his neat little beard. ‘Are you ill or something?'

Charlie Meague stared at the floor. He'd gone back to his perch on the arm of his mother's chair. His head hurt. He stared up at his visitor who was wearing his brown suit underneath the unbuttoned raincoat. He noticed that Carn had bought himself a tweed cap. He wished the man would go away.

‘So how did it go last night?' Carn asked for the second time.

Charlie shrugged.

‘I'll tell you what we're going to do,' Carn said slowly. ‘I'm going to go to Gloucester. There's a nice little hotel in Westgate Street – the White Boar. I booked a room yesterday. You can phone me there. OK?'

Carn paused, but Charlie still said nothing. Carn thrust his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and sighed.

‘I want the money in cash within two days,' he went on. ‘That's being generous to you, isn't it? If you can't manage cash – well – it's not ideal, but I'm prepared to stretch a point. Jewellery, for example. I'm broad-minded. But in that case, you have to get the stuff up to London, and I'll have to add on a percentage for the inconvenience. But it's up to you. I don't mind which way you do it.'

Charlie stared at Carn's shoes which were brown and highly polished. There was a speck of mud on one of the toecaps. He heard and understood what Carn was saying, but the words lacked relevance; they were an irritant like the buzzing of a bluebottle in a room where you wanted silence. The buzzing varied in intensity and it was making his headache worse.

‘If you don't do as I say,' Carn went on softly, taking a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket, ‘then we have to consider the alternative. It's really not very nice, Charlie. You wouldn't like it, and nor would I. Let me give you an idea. Take your dear old mum, for instance. A delightful lady, I have no doubt. But perhaps a trifle overweight in places? These old dears often are.' He took out a cigarette and tapped it on the case. ‘Now when the dear old Bard of Avon talked of a ‘pound of flesh' sliced from a human body, he actually meant it literally, you know. It's perfectly possible. Imagine it, Charlie – like something from the butcher's. But in a case of this nature there'd be an interesting technical problem, wouldn't there? Because the flesh would have to be cut from a living body.'

It wasn't the words, it was the buzzing. Charlie stood up. His mouth was closed, but he made a tiny, inarticulate sound.

Carn stopped talking and dropped his cigarette. He backed away, his pale eyes alert and his right hand digging into the pocket of his raincoat.

Charlie flung himself at Carn. The cigarette case fell to the floor with a clatter. The thought at the top of Charlie's mind was that he could not afford to let the man take his other hand out of his pocket. So he put his arms round Carn and squeezed.

Carn tried to drive his knee into Charlie's crotch. Charlie twisted his legs and covered the target just in time. Carn pulled his head back and smashed his forehead into Charlie's mouth. The pain was intense and the blood tasted salty. Charlie squeezed harder and pushed Carn towards the wall. In a struggle of this sort, Charlie had the advantage because he was taller, heavier and younger.

Carn tripped over the hearth rug and fell backwards, dragging Charlie down with him. Charlie did not let go because he knew that if he did, Carn would be able to get his hand out of his pocket.

Carn's head was resting on the stone hearth. His new cap had fallen into the pile of ashes that spilled from the grate; his breath was warm on Charlie's face and it smelled unpleasantly musty. Neither of them said anything. Charlie raised himself until he had one knee pinning down Carn's right arm and the other on Carn's chest. He looked into Carn's waxen face and Carn looked back.

There was a finality in all this, an absence of choice. Charlie seized Carn's head by its ears and banged it repeatedly and with all his strength against the hearthstone.

Chapter Nine

Sergeant Kirby paused in the open doorway of Harcutt's room. ‘I thought you were talking to Miss Harcutt, sir.'

Thornhill looked up. He was crouching by the bureau and examining the contents of the wastepaper basket. He thought there had been a hint of criticism in Kirby's tone.