An Air That Kills Read online

  ‘How do you mean?’

  The old man sat up in his chair; his triumph had given him a shot of energy. ‘He was looking in the wrong place, wasn’t he? Thought himself so clever.’

  ‘What Mr Masterman means,’ Sergeant Kirby said, ‘is that the safe is actually in the cellar. That’s where he keeps anything worth stealing. He used to have a strongbox up here.’ Kirby waved towards the nearer of the two windows. ‘In the window seat there. Nothing fancy – just an iron-bound box with a lock. But Mr Masterman bought a proper safe a few years back, and he was advised to have it installed in the cellar. It’s actually cemented into the masonry.’

  ‘And he didn’t even know.’ Masterman’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s at floor level. I’ve got an old chest in front of it.’

  ‘So do you know if anything’s actually missing?’

  ‘Canteen of silver cutlery.’ Masterman said promptly. ‘Beautiful workmanship. A couple of rings that belonged to the wife. They were kept in the window seat.’

  Suddenly exhausted, he rested his head against the back of his chair. His eyes closed. Thornhill crossed the room and lifted the window seat. The iron box was Victorian, if not earlier. It was solid enough. There was no sign that the two locks had been tampered with.

  ‘Keys?’ Thornhill said.

  ‘The thief took Mr Masterman’s set from his bedroom. They included the two for the strongbox.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘He left them in the back door when he went.’

  ‘Thoughtful of him. Was there a key for the safe on the ring?’

  ‘Combination lock,’ Masterman said. ‘No expense spared.’

  ‘What else is gone?’ Thornhill asked.

  ‘There may be one or two ornaments,’ Kirby said. ‘It’s early days. No one’s really sure what might have been taken.’

  There was a knock at the door. At a nod from Thornhill, Porter opened it. A grey-haired woman in a sagging apron stood outside. She looked furtive, but Thornhill knew that the proximity of the police often had that effect on people.

  ‘Mrs Crisp,’ Kirby said to Thornhill in an undertone.

  ‘I just wanted to find out about his dinner,’ she said. ‘Will you be wanting your chop, Mr Masterman?’

  ‘’Course I will,’ the old man said without opening his eyes. ‘I need building up, don’t I?’

  Thornhill and Kirby left Porter with Mr Masterman while they examined the rest of the building. On this floor, besides the sitting room, there was a small kitchen and a bathroom, and on the floor above two bedrooms. One bedroom was used solely for storage and the other was Mr Masterman’s; his wife’s brushes were still arrayed on the dressing table and her slippers stood beside his at the foot of the bed. The furnishings were old and uncared for. The only decorations were devotional engravings similar to those in the hall.

  ‘Does Masterman have anyone to come in and help him with the shop?’ Thornhill asked as he and Kirby were going downstairs to the hall.

  ‘Not since his wife died. Too mean, if you ask me.’

  Kirby used Masterman’s keys to unlock the side door from the hall into the shop. The shop was in much the same state as the rooms upstairs: everything had been thoroughly and messily searched. Behind the counter there was a door leading to a back room which Masterman used as a workshop.

  Kirby nodded towards the grimy window above the workbench. ‘That’s the way he came in.’

  The window provided a view of a small yard. Thornhill examined the frame from the inside. There were four vertical iron bars, two of which had been wrenched away at the bottom. The lower halves of the bars were pitted with rust.

  ‘The wood’s rotten,’ Kirby said. ‘In some places it’s as soft as a sponge.’

  There was little to be learned from the workroom itself besides the fact that it had been searched as thoroughly as everywhere else. The two men went back through the shop, down the hall and out through the back door. The yard contained a dustbin, a coal bunker and a disused privy housing a large black bicycle. A gate set in the brick wall opened into an alleyway running parallel to Lyd Street. The gate was secured by a bolt at the top as well as by a lock.

  Thornhill went into the alley and shut the gate behind him. There were two or three inches between the lintel and the top of the gate – quite enough for him to get his hand through and reach the bolt. He went back into the yard.

  ‘So where did Masterman hide the key for the gate?’

  Kirby grinned, and for the first time Thornhill saw him as a person rather than simply the detective sergeant that fate had allocated him.

  ‘He told me it’s always on his key chain with the others.’ Kirby dangled the bunch of keys from his fingers. ‘But the cleaning woman says there’s a spare, and it’s kept down here. See – just above the lintel – there’s a little ledge below where the bricks start. Handy for deliveries, she says. If he’s busy with a customer, he doesn’t want to have to deal with that sort of thing. So they leave the goods in that little shed with the bike in it. Especially since his wife died. But Mrs Crisp says they used to do it long before that.’

  ‘Local knowledge?’

  ‘Looks like it, sir.’

  ‘But rather incomplete local knowledge.’

  Kirby nodded. ‘Think it’s the same one who did the pub?’

  ‘It’s early days.’ Thornhill looked round above the level of the walls, trying to get his bearings. ‘That’s east, isn’t it? So Templefields is over there.’

  ‘Two or three hundred yards away if you go by the alleys. Nearly twice as much if you go by road.’

  Thornhill strolled over to the window again. He knew that Kirby was waiting for him to say more. He looked at the frame. The marks of the crowbar were quite obvious in the wood. Everything would have to be measured and tabulated. It sometimes depressed him how much effort went into trying to cope with these small and rather inefficient robberies. They kept on coming at you from all sides. Whether you solved individual crimes or not, the frustration remained because your efforts could do nothing to stem the flow of equally futile cases.

  ‘Kirby, I want you here for the next few hours. Get the fingerprinting done. Have them photograph that window, especially the mark of the crowbar. Try to find out what damage has been done and what’s missing. You know the drill. Talk to the woman, talk to Masterman. See if he’s got any enemies, anyone who might have a grudge against him. Find out exactly when he had the safe installed and who knew about it.’

  Kirby looked surprised. Thornhill knew that his predecessor in the job had had the reputation for being reluctant to delegate, whereas he himself tended to go too far in the other direction.

  ‘Right. I’ll leave you to it.’ Thornhill led the way back into the house. ‘I’ll be back in an hour or two.’

  He opened the front door and stepped on to the pavement. After he’d shut the door behind him, he stood outside the shop, looking up and down the hill, from the High Street to the river. For an instant he pushed this dreary little case to the back of his mind.

  So this was Lydmouth on a bleak November morning. Nostalgia swept over him. He wished he were back in the Fens.

  Chapter Three

  At ten fifteen they had ten minutes to themselves. A few of the men brought tea in Thermos flasks, some had sandwiches, and most of them took the opportunity to have a smoke.

  During the morning, they had been clearing rubble from one end of the old warehouse and they took their break there. It was a dry day with the clouds gradually retreating eastwards and allowing sunlight to filter through, but the wind was so cold that no one wanted to hang around in the open air. Puffs of smoke rose from a score of pipes and cigarettes into the shadowy roof space.

  Charlie Meague was leaning against a wall and rolling himself a cigarette when Cyril George came into the warehouse. No one said anything but everyone knew the boss was here. Some men reacted by talking a little louder than normal.

  George beckoned Ted Evans over
to him. ‘I’ve just had the police on the phone.’ He made no effort to lower his voice. ‘They say we still can’t do anything with the building where you found those bloody bones. They may want to have another look.’

  ‘So you want me to keep the men on this side today?’

  ‘We haven’t got much choice, have we?’

  ‘There’s enough to do here. No one will be idle.’

  ‘Just as well. I don’t employ skivers.’

  George marched out of the warehouse. With him went the tension that his presence brought. Evans sipped his tea. Someone cracked a joke, but the laughter was muted.

  Cigarette in mouth, Charlie Meague sauntered outside. No one challenged him. If his departure were noticed, it would be assumed that he was looking for a private corner to answer a call of nature. He walked quickly across the warehouse’s yard and through a small side gate that led to a cobbled alley running between the warehouse and the Rose in Hand. Soon he turned left into a lane running parallel to the main road. No one was in sight. A moment later, he reached the back gates of the yard where they had found the bones.

  The gates were locked and a row of spikes ran along the top of them. But when he was a boy, Charlie had got in easily enough by climbing up in the angle between the left-hand gate and the crumbling brick pillar beside it. It was even easier now that he was taller.

  He reached the top of the wall, swung his legs over and slithered down the other side. He took a last drag from the cigarette and ground it into the cobbles with his heel.

  An old door had been laid across the opening that led into the outhouse where the privy was. Someone had daubed KEEP OUT in red paint across it. Charlie approached cautiously. The building seemed to be much as he’d left it, except that the box was no longer there. He could see the remains of the rat on the floor. He averted his eyes. Something had feasted off it during the night.

  It was a shame that the box had gone, though he hadn’t really expected it to be there: he guessed that Goody-Goody Evans would have given it to George, along with the contents. Probably the police had it now. But there was just a chance that he might be able to find something else. The police hadn’t searched the place properly yet. It must have been dark by the time they had arrived last night. In any case it had been pissing with rain and there had been no reason why they should have thought there was any need for urgency.

  Perhaps, Charlie thought, perhaps there was nothing to find, here or in the box. But sometimes you had to back your hunches. That had been another of Carn’s little sayings. Genghis Carn was full of little sayings: If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  Charlie shivered. He had the sense that something had touched him – his mind, not his body; when they were children they used to say that there was a ghost walking over your grave. He glanced over his shoulder. The yard was still empty. He’d half expected to see Carn standing there with his hands in his pockets and the know-it-all smile on his pasty face.

  A ghost walking over your grave.

  For an instant the elusive memory tried to nudge its way to the surface. Something to do with the box? But the memory slipped away, down into the depths. Charlie shivered again. But why not, it was a cold day, wasn’t it? He was too tired, that was the trouble; when you were tired, you started imagining things.

  He stepped over the door into the privy and crouched beside the place where he’d found the box. He picked up a brick, moved part of a rotting plank and scooped aside a pile of dead leaves. Nothing but more rubbish. Talk about needles and haystacks.

  He stood up. Evans was a bastard about time-keeping, as about so much else. He turned to leave and found himself looking at Evans himself. He was standing outside in the yard with one hand resting on the door that said KEEP OUT.

  ‘Having trouble with your reading?’

  Charlie’s heart scarcely missed a beat. He knew it wasn’t worth antagonising Evans any more. The best thing would be to give him a version of the truth. ‘I wondered if there might be something else here – something we missed.’

  ‘Another silver brooch?’

  ‘Maybe. Worth a try.’

  There was no flicker of sympathy in Evans’s eyes. Maybe Evans had already been here on the same errand. Charlie moved towards him and Evans stepped back to give him room. He even tried the effect of a smile as he climbed over the door, but Evans just stared at him, turned and walked towards the ruined barn; he hadn’t needed to scramble over the gates as Charlie had.

  ‘Has Mr George got the box the bones were in?’ Charlie asked, falling into step beside him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t look at it properly yesterday. I just wondered if there was anything else in it.’

  ‘Come on, Meague,’ Evans said. ‘Be your age. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve had your last chance. This is real life – you’re not a bloody child any more. If there’s a next time, you’ll be out on your ear.’

  Chapter Four

  Edge Hill lay on the road north, the road for Ross and Hereford, Worcester and Birmingham. On Thornhill’s prewar Ordnance Survey map, it was marked as a separate village about two miles to the north of the centre of Lydmouth. Nowadays, however, the village was linked to the town by ribbon development stretching along both sides of the road, mainly semidetached, pebble-dashed houses built in the nineteen thirties.

  The wide, straight road encouraged drivers to go too fast. Thornhill would have missed the village altogether if he had not glimpsed the church. He was almost too late to stop. He braked and pulled over to the left without signalling, a manoeuvre which earned him a volley from the horn of the lorry thundering along on his tail.

  The church was at the apex of a triangular green with a war memorial. Thornhill identified Chandos Lodge without any difficulty. It stood at one end of the side of the triangle which was furthest away from the church, separated from the green by the main road. The house was L-shaped and clad with stucco, with the main façade at right angles to the green. It was certainly large – the number of bedrooms might well run to double figures – but in calling it white, Mrs Wemyss-Brown had erred on the charitable side. The white had long since given place to a variety of other colours: greys, browns, greens and even blacks.

  Thornhill locked the Austin and walked across the grass. The wind had blown back many of the clouds exposing a blue sky, and the sun was out. It was astonishing how a little sunshine could make a man feel more cheerful. He allowed a few drops of optimism to seep into his mind: with time, all things were possible: Williamson might mellow with further acquaintance or – perhaps more plausibly – be incapacitated by illness and forced to retire; Edith would revert to her old self; he would have more time to spend with her and the children.

  He had to wait to cross the road because of the traffic. Although Chandos Lodge stood within its own garden, the house itself was surprisingly close to the road; when it was built, in the high noon of railway prosperity, no doubt the noise of traffic had not been a consideration.

  There were two entrances from the road: wrought-iron gates, one leaf of which was propped open, led to a short carriage drive to the front door; and further down the road in the Lydmouth direction there was a pair of wooden gates with the roof of what looked like a coach house behind it.

  Thornhill crossed the road and walked carefully up the drive, skirting the occasional pile of dog turds. Once, it had been covered with gravel, but now its surface was scarred with ruts and potholes and dotted with tussocks of bright grass and puddles gleaming with the brilliant blue of the sky.

  The nearer he got to it, the worse the house appeared. Some houses were beautiful, even in decay, but Chandos Lodge had been ugly from the start. Now, in what might be politely described as the evening of its life, it was becoming steadily uglier. Some of the tall, ground-floor windows had been boarded up. Those huge expanses of glass hinted at enormous rooms behind, and the place must be the devil to heat. The large garden had become a wilderness of long, lank grass and overgrown shrubs
and trees.

  Before driving to Edge Hill, Thornhill had tried to telephone Major Harcutt from the police station. Harcutt proved not to be on the phone. Thornhill assumed that this was because he was old-fashioned; but Chandos Lodge suggested that the reason might be that he couldn’t afford it.

  A dog was barking inside the house. The barks became more frenzied as he went up the three steps leading to the front door which was recessed between a pair of squat pillars. There was a bell pull of the kind designed to communicate by means of wires with invisible servants. He tugged it, but heard nothing, and the pull itself felt suspiciously slack. There was no knocker, so he rapped briskly on the door with his knuckles. These attempts to announce his presence were, he felt, mere formalities whose ostensible purpose was irrelevant: the dog’s barking must have been audible on the green.

  Without any warning, the front door swung open. An old man, hunched over a stick, stared at Thornhill. He wore corduroy trousers, leather slippers and a baggy tweed jacket over what looked like several jerseys. There was a poppy in the lapel of the jacket. The dog, a border collie with a mad gleam in its yellow eyes, barked continuously and strained towards Thornhill. The old man had what Thornhill hoped was a firm grip on its collar.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘Good morning, sir. I’m looking for Major Harcutt.’

  ‘You’ve found him.’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Thornhill.’ His promotion was still recent enough for the rank to give him a thrill of pride. ‘I wonder if you could spare me a few moments?’

  ‘Those bones, eh?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. How did you know?’

  The old man didn’t answer. He was younger than Thornhill had at first thought – in his late sixties, perhaps. Small blue eyes peered out of a face hatched with broken veins. He shuffled back from the doorway, leaving Thornhill to come into the house, shut the door behind him and follow his host.