Dying to Know (3 page)

I still had love for Charlie, you see, and would not now be with Max had it not been for Tristan.

Tristan was my brother-in-law and he blamed me for the suicide of his sister, my wife. He was a pull-the-legs-off-spiders kind of guy; one who didn't mind experiencing a bit of pain in order to cause a lot of it. He had decided that I shouldn't be happy with Charlie, that I shouldn't be happy with
anyone.
I had made the decision that for her safety, I should end the relationship. I had even strongly considered whether I should enter into any further relationships, and become a secular monk, a man alone in a crowded world.

But Max had come along and beguiled me, and I was lost.

Lost and afraid that Tristan might come back and not like the way things were going. I had not told Max about Tristan and there was within me a constant turmoil as to whether I should.

When Burns opined on the best laid plans of mice and men, he was close but not spot on; he failed to mention that other category of doomed individuals – sons of eccentrics. Perhaps his father was entirely rational and behaved normally or perhaps Burns Senior was so bonkers he was entombed in some sort of asylum, I don't know. Whatever the case, I'll bet he was never subjected to the torments that I have to endure.

We had been home no more than ten minutes and had only just sat down on the sofa, food in front of us on our laps, a nice bottle of Chianti open and begging to be drunk, when the phone rang. I ought to have had a premonition that it was trouble, and that the trouble answered to the name of ‘Dad', but I couldn't believe that fate was that unkind; I think that I vaguely wondered if it might be a patient – I wasn't on call but a few with long-term or terminal illnesses had my home number and might call if they had particular problems – and consequently, although I groaned inwardly, I went out into the hall to answer it.

‘Lance?'

As you've probably guessed, it was my father. ‘Dad?'

‘Sorry to bother you so late. You weren't doing anything, were you?'

‘I was just going to eat something.'

‘Were you? Well, never mind . . .'

‘Max is here.'

‘Is she?' This question was posed in a dismissive tone; it was not the first time that I had the feeling that he did not entirely approve of Max. ‘Something's come up . . .'

The last time he had rung me late in the evening with an urgent problem, it had been because he had become convinced that his new neighbour, Oliver Lightoller, had murdered his wife, Doris. He hadn't, of course, but that didn't stop Dad involving the police, thereby causing much chaos.

‘Look, Dad. Can't it wait til morning?'

The interruption made him pause and think. ‘I suppose it could,' he said thoughtfully.

‘Good.' I would have gone on to wish him a good night's sleep and then put the phone down, except that he hadn't finished either. In the same pensive voice, he said, ‘The accommodation's quite good.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's warm, and they've offered me a bite to eat.'

‘Who have?'

He seemed surprised by my ignorance. ‘The police.'

I knew then that my carnal desires were not going to be satisfied that night. ‘You're at the police station?'

‘At Norbury, yes.'

I thought, Deep breathing, that's the key in these situations.

‘What's happened?'

I had never known Dad to do anything quickly, but at times such as this, he seemed to slow to sub-glacial pace. I had time to run through at least twenty possible reasons for his presence
Chez Plod
before he spoke again. ‘I've been arrested.'

‘Why?' I tried for serenity but the panic I was feeling added a distinctly shrill undertone.

Another long pause, then: ‘Arson.'

THREE

M
y father had worked asss a general practitioner in Thornton Heath for all of his professional life and for over half of it he had been a police surgeon. A consequence of this was that he knew quite a few police officers, especially the older ones. The trouble was, they knew him, too . . .

Sergeant Percy Bailey was sympathetic but could do nothing for us. Dad was being interviewed by the CID and we would have to wait until they had finished with him.

‘He said that he was accused of arson,' I told him. ‘Is that true?'

Bailey was a large man, and fittingly portly, large lips, a nose that was slightly crooked and hair that had not exactly receded, merely faded away. His nod was part sadness, part sympathy as he replied, ‘So it would appear.'

‘What did he burn down?'

‘His neighbour's shed.'

‘Neighbour? You mean Lightoller?'

‘That is the owner's name, yes.'

I closed my eyes. Beside me Max asked, ‘Why would he do a thing like that?'

She was an innocent in the ways of my father; she did not appreciate that he needed no reasons; that often reasons – and reason – were not involved at all. Sergeant Bailey turned his penetrating, if ponderous gaze upon her. ‘That is what we are trying to ascertain,' he informed in impeccable Constablese.

I asked without hope, ‘Can we see him?'

‘Not yet I'm afraid.' This delivered with the kind of implacability and finality normally associated with steamrollers. ‘The inspector's talking with him.'

A feeling of despair settled upon me. ‘Inspector Masson?'

He looked at me with understanding and some commiseration as he nodded and said, ‘Yes.' As if the news wasn't already bad enough, he compounded it by adding, ‘When he discovered it was your father, he actually smiled.'

Masson and my father were old friends, in a manner of speaking.

We retreated to the far end of the room while I regretted not calling a solicitor. I hadn't done so because Dad had insisted that it was unnecessary, that he was an innocent man and the appearance of a lawyer would only cast doubt on him.

Max asked in a loud whisper, ‘Just who is Mr Lightoller?'

‘His neighbour.'

She digested this. ‘Don't they get on?'

‘Oliver and Doris Lightoller moved in about six months ago, during the course of which their removal van blocked Dad's driveway for most of the day, and their removal men managed to damage his garden wall. Dad complained and it set the tone for their relationship ever since. It wasn't improved when Dad became convinced that Lightoller had pinched his watch.'

‘His watch? How is he supposed to have managed that?'

‘Dad was painting his garage doors one day. He got started, then realized that he was still wearing his watch, so took it off and rested it on the low wall that divides the two gardens. According to Dad, Lightoller came home while he was working and just about then the watch vanished.'

‘Why on earth would Mr Lightoller want to steal a watch?'

I shrugged. ‘Dad's always claimed that it's valuable, although I wouldn't know. It belonged to my grandfather.'

‘Your father's such a nice man; Mr Lightoller must be very unpleasant if he can't get on with him.'

‘He's not the most likeable of men, but then I'm not particularly objective, I suppose. And Lightoller's turned the screw a bit himself. He's instructed a solicitor claiming that Dad's boundary fence is incorrectly positioned and should be moved six inches back.'

She considered this. ‘Do you think your father would do it? I mean, set fire to Mr Lightoller's house, or whatever it was?'

I wished I could reassure both her and myself that it was out of the question, but with Dad there was some doubt.

I had met Oliver and Doris Lightoller on only a couple of occasions. He was a short man, rather fat and toad-like with fleshy lips and a surfeit of hair, unfortunately most of which was not on his head. Doris was of a similar height and even more obese; she wore too much make-up and too much pungent perfume, a sure sign of an underlying odour problem. They had struck me as polite but distant, although that might have been because of who I was. The same could not be said of their son, Tom, whom I had met one evening when he was leaving his parents' house and I was just arriving for a meal with Dad. He was fairly small and delicate-looking, but he was nonetheless somehow intimidating, perhaps because of a quite startling degree of intensity with which he stared at me, while his parents whispered in his ear, presumably giving him a good dose of anti-Elliot propaganda. He was perhaps only five feet eight, with ash-blond hair and blue eyes, and a dark suit with a rose in the lapel. I remember thinking that he looked like an undertaker, which it turned out that he was.

Max and I sat in the waiting room while Percy did what desk sergeants do and, every so often, glanced up at us as we sat on the bright-red and viciously uncomfortable plastic seats. By way of light relief we watched as he had to deal with an intermittent stream of members of the public, some accompanied by police officers, others finding their way under their own steam. There were several drunk men, two drunk women, a man who wanted to report that he had lost his umbrella on the bus, another who had exposed himself to a vicar, and an ancient woman with a Zimmer frame who had assaulted a constable by thrusting her hatpin into his crotch, thus causing him to seek medical aid in the Mayday Hospital casualty department.

After two hours of this colourful pageant of human depravity and lunacy, Sergeant Bailey said, rather belatedly, ‘I'd go home, if I were you. It could be hours yet.'

But we stayed and our patience was rewarded after a further ninety minutes when the familiar figure of Inspector Masson came into the room behind Percy Bailey looking just as I remembered him. He was short and grey and gloomy then and, if he was still comparably short and grey, he appeared decidedly gloomier now. He had the darkest, most impressive bags beneath his eyes, while his jowls would not have disgraced a beagle. When he caught sight of us, he stopped what he was doing and came to the counter beside Sergeant Bailey.

‘Dr Elliot.'

‘Inspector.'

‘You're here because of your father.'

I was tired and I was worried and I thought I was being witty – and, who knows, perhaps I was – as I said, ‘I see your detective skills haven't deserted you.'

And then I remembered that Masson doubtless had many admirable qualities, but a sense of humour was not amongst them. While I tried not to wilt, he stared at me for several long seconds with an intensity I knew well. Eventually he said with deadly dullness, ‘He's been accused of committing a serious offence, Dr Elliot. Arsonists are dealt with very harshly by the law, and quite rightly too.'

‘What, exactly, did he do?'

‘He launched a rocket into his neighbour's shed.'

I confess now that I was struck dumb by this piece of news. Beside me, Max perked up. ‘Gosh, did he?' This was in a wondering, almost awestruck tone, and I'm not sure it helped the situation.

‘He did. It ignited some petrol and now, despite the best efforts of the fire brigade, the shed and all its contents are completely destroyed. Luckily, there was no loss of life.'

‘By “rocket”, you mean firework?' I asked.

He nodded.

‘What the hell was he doing playing with fireworks at his time of life?'

‘His story is that he bought a few to entertain a lady friend of his. A Mrs Ada Clarke.'

Dad had mentioned Ada Clarke to me before; he'd had his eye on her for some months, had even taken up bell-ringing to get close to her as she was a dedicated campanologist at St Jude's Church in Thornton Heath.

Masson continued, ‘He claims that he put the rocket in a milk bottle on the garden path, lit it and retreated. He says that the bottle must have been a little unstable and when the rocket ignited, it tipped over and went at a very low altitude just over the fence and into the shed.'

At which Max giggled and I closed imaginary eyes and Masson did a bit more staring, only this time in her direction. I said quickly, ‘This is Miss Christy.'

‘Is it,' responded Masson; it wasn't a question, more a judgement.

‘Are you going to charge my father?'

He reverted to me. ‘I haven't decided yet. He claims that it was completely accidental; his neighbour, though, insists that your father has been waging a war against him and, I have to say, there is some evidence for that allegation. Your father himself tells me that he believes Mr Lightoller to have stolen a watch from him.'

‘Not the watch again,' I groaned.

‘So you see, it is clear that your father has taken against his neighbour.'

‘They don't get on, inspector. I wouldn't describe it as warfare.'

Masson, of course, had to argue. ‘I've known murder committed when two elderly people “don't get on”.'

‘All the same . . .'

But Masson did not want to argue. He said abruptly, ‘I'm going to let him go for now on bail, but that doesn't mean it's the end of the matter. I want to make some more enquiries and then we'll see if he has a case to answer.'

He turned and I'm sure would have left us completely in the dark about details had I not called after him, ‘When can we see him, then?'

He seemed surprised that I was still there and hesitated before glancing over his shoulder with a frown. ‘It'll be about fifteen minutes before the formalities are over.'

With which he continued on his way. Percy Bailey smiled faintly as we returned to our seats to await my father. Max whispered, ‘Gosh! He must be terrifying when he doesn't like you.'

I sighed. ‘Oh, he is, Max. Believe me, he is.'