An Air That Kills Page 3

  Charlotte glanced at her watch. ‘I must have a word with Susan about dinner. Would you excuse me?’

  Jill smiled and nodded at her hostess. The smile felt devoid of warmth, a mere stretching of the lips. Charlotte seemed not to notice. She levered herself out of her chair and strode towards the door. She had been a sturdy woman when Philip married her nine years before, and since then she had grown steadily sturdier.

  Philip leant on the mantel shelf and smoked. Jill stared at the flames. She knew that she should make conversation but her mind could think of nothing to say, and she could not put her tongue around words. She was discovering that misery ebbed and flowed according to some mysterious law of its own. At present it was flowing. It paralysed her.

  It was partly the effect of seeing Philip and Charlotte at home for the first time. In the past, the three of them had always met in London, either in a public place like a restaurant or a theatre, or at Jill’s flat. The problem was not so much seeing them as a couple, because Jill was used to that, but seeing them as a couple in their home, with family photographs on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Well?’ Philip said. ‘What do you think of it?’

  Taken by surprise, Jill found that she could talk after all. ‘Think of what?’

  Philip waved his cigarette around the big drawing room. ‘All this. Troy House.’

  She looked up at his face, which was closed and intent, as if he were concentrating on something that she couldn’t see. He had put on a lot of weight in the last few years.

  ‘It seems very nice,’ Jill said. ‘I know that’s a silly thing to say. But it does. Solid. A home.’

  Philip grinned at her. ‘It’s a shrine to respectability. A tomb haunted by the shade of Granny Wemyss.’

  ‘And why not? There’s nothing wrong with a bit of respectability. Actually, it seems rather attractive.’

  He stared at her and opened his mouth to say something. But at that moment the door opened and Charlotte came into the room in a procession of one. She sank into her chair with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Philip, give me a cigarette, would you?’ She turned to Jill. ‘And what’s this I hear about your new job? It sounds wonderful.’

  Jill looked at Charlotte and the panic rose inside her. She couldn’t think of what to say or how to say it. Charlotte sat there, waiting and smiling. The smile seemed to grow wider and wider until the round, white face threatened to split in two.

  Philip held open the cigarette box for Charlotte and cleared his throat noisily. ‘Quite a triumph, eh? Mark you, you’ll have to keep it a deadly secret. You can imagine how all the old fogies would react if they found out that a woman was writing the Bystander column.’

  ‘Just think of it,’ Charlotte said, bending towards the flame which Philip held out to her. ‘In a hundred and fifty years you’re the first woman to do that job. Good Lord.’ She blew out smoke and stared down her long thin nose at the glowing tip of her cigarette. ‘It must feel a heavy responsibility. Still, I’m sure you’ll be equal to it.’

  Jill shook her head. ‘I’m not going to do the Bystander column after all.’

  Philip frowned. ‘But you said in your last letter that it was all settled. I don’t understand. What happened? Did they change their minds?’

  ‘No. They offered me the job. I turned it down.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘Perhaps you’re wise, dear.’ Her eyes gleamed in the firelight. ‘It would have been very difficult for a woman. I’m not sure how I would have felt if—’

  ‘For God’s sake, Jill,’ Philip interrupted. ‘You’ve been angling for that job for years. Play your cards right and you’d end up editor. What went wrong?’

  Jill knotted her fingers together on her lap. ‘I told you. I decided not to take it in the end.’

  ‘But why not?’ Philip said, and his voice was brusque, almost angry: it might have been his future which she had so wantonly discarded.

  Jill forced herself to smile at him, and simultaneously felt irritated that she should feel it necessary to propitiate him. ‘I felt I needed a change,’ she lied. The pain twisted and stabbed deep inside her. She glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf and turned to Charlotte. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll go up to my room now and sort myself out.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I appreciate you’re not a local man, Thornhill, and you may not be entirely familiar with the way we like to do things in this neck of the woods. I’m a fair man, I hope, and I realise this is only your third day.’ Superintendent Williamson picked up his pipe and began to ream it with deliberation. ‘Still – I don’t know how you fellows used to manage in the depths of Cambridgeshire, but here we like to get results and we like them quickly. You follow me?’

  The superintendent rapped his pipe vigorously against the metal ashtray on his desk. Richard Thornhill surreptitiously pinched his thigh in a desperate attempt to make himself feel more alert. He had slept very badly for the last few nights and the superintendent’s voice reminded him of a bass drone attached to a set of bagpipes: it rumbled on and on, never stopping, never changing. To make matters worse, the window was closed and the gas fire was on full.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and clamped his lips together to prevent a yawn escaping.

  ‘Attention to detail, Thornhill. No possibility is too small to be worth examining. Constant vigilance. Every CID officer should have those words engraved on his heart. Those are the standards I have in mind when I monitor and direct the work of this department.’

  Williamson opened his tobacco pouch, sniffed happily at its contents and glanced across the desk. Without warning, he switched from the general to the specific. ‘So what have you got for me on that Templefields case? The King’s Head? Surely you’ve found out something?’

  ‘Whoever it was broke in through a pantry window,’ Thornhill said. ‘The window opens on to an alley at the back of the pub. He probably went in at about one o’clock. Mrs Halleran, the landlady, tells me he lifted a case of Scotch and about two thousand cigarettes. But I’m not sure that I believe her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t believe she’d keep that much in stock at one time. She’s running the place on a shoestring. Besides, he’d have to be a cool customer to run off with a case of whisky under his arm once she started yelling.’

  Williamson grunted. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And then he went upstairs. Mrs Halleran keeps the takings under the bed apparently.’

  ‘So he knew that?’

  ‘Just as likely he couldn’t find anything else worth stealing downstairs and thought he’d have a look upstairs. Unfortunately for him, she’s a fairly light sleeper. She heard the stairs creak. Then the bedroom door opened. There’s a streetlight outside the landing window. She saw his silhouette.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  Thornhill shook his head. ‘She said he was enormous. She thought he was carrying a revolver. Which is more or less what they all say. Anyway, she let out a scream and the man ran off. By the time Mrs Halleran’s son came down from the next floor, he was well away.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘He wore gloves.’

  ‘Ten to one it’s someone local.’ The superintendent filled his pipe with stubby fingers.

  ‘Mrs Halleran mentioned a man named Meague. One of her customers, apparently.’

  ‘Charlie Meague? Currently living in Minching Lane, about three doors down from the King’s Head. He’s got a record. We did him for nicking a car once. He was only about eighteen.’

  ‘She claims he’s got it in for her.’

  ‘More than likely.’ Williamson patted his pockets until he located his matches. ‘But it doesn’t follow that it was him. Wouldn’t foul his own nest. But that reminds me. It’s a small world, I always say, and especially small in Lydmouth. I had a call from a friend of mine at the Met this afternoon. He’d picked up a whisper that Genghis Carn is heading for this part of the world.’

  ‘Who?’ Thornhill watched with
irritation as a layer of condescension spread over Williamson’s face.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have heard of Genghis Carn even in the Fens. Used to be into the black market in a big way. But they sent him down a few years back for a neat little confidence trick – letting the same flat to umpteen different people. Amazing how stupid you can be when you’re desperate for a roof over your head.’

  Thornhill made a quick recovery: ‘Yes, of course. My old boss always used to call him Jimmy Carn. He had him up before the war for street betting.’

  Williamson scowled at this attempt to regain the advantage. ‘I understand he’s just out of prison.’

  ‘Why would he want to come here?’

  ‘That’s just it. There’s a rumour that Charlie Meague used to work for him in London.’

  ‘But do we know that Carn’s actually making for Lydmouth?’

  Williamson scraped a match along the side of the box. He lit his pipe with loving deliberation. ‘Just a possibility to bear in mind,’ he said between puffs. ‘I don’t like it when people like him come heading for my patch. Bloody foreigners.’

  In Lydmouth, Thornhill had already learned, anyone from outside the county ranked as a foreigner. Williamson pulled a folder towards him, opened it and lowered his head over its contents. Smoke billowed around him. Thornhill stood up, assuming that he was dismissed.

  ‘And another thing,’ the superintendent said without looking up. ‘Ninety per cent of the crime we get in Lydmouth has something to do with Templefields. That place sets alarm bells ringing up here.’ He prodded his forehead with his index finger.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So get it sorted.’

  Thornhill nodded and turned to go.

  ‘Not so fast. I notice you haven’t got yourself a poppy yet.’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet.’

  ‘I like my officers to wear them. It’s the least we can do, I think. Such a small token of respect.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Thornhill closed the door of the superintendent’s office quietly behind him and walked down the corridor towards his own room. When he got there, he didn’t bother to turn on the light. He put on his hat and shrugged himself into his overcoat. The phone on his desk began to ring. He was tempted to leave it. He should have gone off duty hours ago. No one would ever know that he’d been here. Except himself.

  He sighed and picked up the receiver. ‘Thornhill here.’

  ‘This is Sergeant Fowles, sir. We’ve just had a call from the contractors down at the Rose in Hand site in Templefields. They were digging a drain or something and they found some bones.’

  ‘Human?’

  ‘They don’t rightly know. There’s an old brooch too, it seems.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound very urgent. Have you tried to get Sergeant Kirby? He can deal with it.’

  ‘He’s already left, sir. The thing is, I don’t know if it’s relevant, but one of the men who found the bones is Ted Evans.’

  ‘Who?’

  There was a pause as Sergeant Fowles assimilated the inadequacy of Thornhill’s local knowledge. Then Fowles went on: ‘Ted Evans – the point is, he knows about bones on account of his dad being a gravedigger. Used to help him when he was a lad. Ted reckons those bones come from a baby.’

  Thornhill said nothing. A few old bones, possibly human, possibly a baby’s – certainly old. Any sane police officer would accept that in the circumstances further investigation could safely be left until the morning.

  Thornhill sighed. ‘Have you put out a call for Dr Bayswater?’

  ‘No, sir. Thought I’d better have a word with you first.’

  ‘See if you can get him to meet me there in half an hour. I’ll go down now.’

  Thornhill broke the connection. He got an outside line and dialled his own number. The phone rang for some time before Edith answered.

  ‘Darling, it’s me – I’m afraid I won’t be back for a while.’

  ‘Will you be in time to read the stories?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably not.’

  ‘David, don’t do that,’ Edith shouted. ‘He’s got mashed potato all over his hair,’ she added in her ordinary voice. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Yes. Goodbye.’

  Thornhill dropped the receiver back on its rest and left the office. He went downstairs to the car park behind police headquarters. It was only four thirty, but it was already almost dark. As he walked towards his car, he glanced up at the brightly lit windows of the rear façade of the building. In Victorian times it had been a private house with a large garden, a coach house and stables. Now the garden was devoted either to car parking or to workshops, temporary offices and storage sheds. The house itself had sprouted extensions in unexpected places. Fire escapes crisscrossed the back of the building, giving it the appearance of a badly fastened parcel.

  The Austin started immediately. It was Thornhill’s own car, a recent purchase, though of course second hand; the novelty had not yet worn off, and he was secretly rather proud of it – and of himself for being able to afford it. He drove carefully out of the car park and up to the High Street. The pavements were full of hurrying figures. He loathed this time of year when the nights were longer than the days.

  A policeman was directing the traffic near the Templefields site. To avoid the queue of vehicles going towards the station Thornhill steered into the kerb and drove with his nearside wheels on the pavement. The policeman blew his whistle and waved. He had not recognised the car, which did not improve Thornhill’s temper. He rolled down his window.

  ‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ the young constable began, pink-faced with righteous indignation.

  Thornhill scowled and thrust his warrant card out of the window. The constable’s features registered first shock, and then fear. Hurriedly, he waved the Austin on.

  Thornhill reached the makeshift barrier erected by the building contractors. A Jaguar was parked on the other side of the barrier. As Thornhill turned off his engine, its doors opened. From the driver’s seat emerged a tall figure wearing a heavy tweed overcoat with a poppy in the buttonhole. A sturdy, broad-chested man dressed as a workman got out from the passenger side.

  The two men watched while Thornhill got out of his car and locked the door. The one in the overcoat took a couple of steps forward and pulled aside the barrier to allow Thornhill to come into the enclosure.

  ‘You are the police, I assume?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Inspector Thornhill, CID.’

  ‘I’m Cyril George. What I really want to know is whether this is going to cause any delay. Time’s money, you know.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that until we know a little bit more.’

  George stamped his feet, perhaps from cold, perhaps from irritation. He was a big, fleshy man in his forties. ‘We’re already running behind schedule. In any case, it’s not a good time of year for this type of work. And the longer we leave it, the worse it will get.’

  ‘Is this Mr Evans?’ Thornhill asked.

  The other man nodded.

  ‘You found the bones, I understand.’

  Evans came a step nearer Thornhill. ‘In a manner of speaking. There were four of us there altogether.’

  ‘I sent the others home,’ George said. ‘No point in keeping them hanging on.’

  Thornhill wondered if keeping them hanging on would have involved George’s having to pay them overtime. He said to Evans, ‘Are the bones still where you found them?’

  ‘No. I took them along to the site office.’

  ‘It was the obvious thing to do,’ George snapped, though Thornhill had said nothing to the contrary. ‘It’s not as if Evans was disturbing the scene of the crime, is it? Frankly don’t really understand why you’re here. These bones – they’ve probably been here for centuries.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir. But when human remains are reported to us we have to investigate. Standard procedure.’

  George shrugged. ‘Well, come on.
We might as well get this over with, I suppose.’

  He led the way along the cordoned-off part of the pavement towards a pair of gates set in an archway big enough to admit a small lorry. He opened a wicket in the right-hand leaf and stepped into a darkened yard.

  ‘I was having a drink with Superintendent Williamson only the other evening,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Give him my regards, won’t you?’

  Thornhill nodded, registering the oblique threat, and followed George across the cobbles to a doorway in the range of buildings on the right. Behind him he heard a click as the wicket closed and the hobnailed soles of Evans’s boots scraping on the stones. The doorway had lost its door, which lay against the wall of the dimly lit corridor beyond.

  ‘Mind the steps,’ George said.

  Thornhill sniffed. He smelled damp, decaying vegetable matter, dry rot and – faint but unmistakable – urine. The building was dying.

  George stopped at a door. Keys rattled. A moment later the three of them were inside what had once been a large kitchen. The plaster was coming adrift from the walls and the old cooking range was a tangle of rust and soot; but the room was at least warm. It smelt of the two paraffin heaters which stood behind the larger of the two desks. There was also a filing cabinet, three hard chairs and an easel on which had been pinned a plan of the site. The office was as comfortless as a military command post.

  ‘There you are.’ George waved towards the smaller desk. ‘There’s your corpse.’

  He sat down behind the larger desk, opened a file and began to study its contents. Thornhill glanced at Evans who met his gaze and did not look away. The man’s face was reserved but not necessarily hostile. He stood patiently by the door, his cap clasped in his hands. In another man the pose might have seemed subservient.

  Thornhill went up to the smaller desk, Utility furniture scarred by mistreatment. On it stood a roughly made wooden box with rusty handles at either end made of squared hand-made nails bent to shape and stapled to the wood.