How the Dead Live (Factory 3) (8 page)

He looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t much time,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an appointment.’

I said: ‘It’ll have to wait,’ and he looked at me in a silence that I enjoyed. ‘What I want is some background information on Dr Mardy – does he have any staff up at his house?’

‘Not any more.’

‘What staff did he have?’

‘A part-time jobbing gardener called Dick Sanders, local boy.’

‘Were the dates of his employment there relevant to the period we’re discussing?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well? Yes or no? Come on – I can quickly check it.’

‘Yes.’

I made a note of the name. ‘And by the way,’ I said, ‘the day you and Sergeant Turner went up to the house, did you ask Dr Mardy why his wife had been seen around Thornhill with a veil round her face?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Because I didn’t think the way Mrs Mardy dressed was any of my affair. I knew she was ill and I didn’t want to press or upset Dr Mardy.’

‘You may have been dead wrong not to press him,’ I said. ‘Another thing – weren’t you at any time ever intrigued by Mrs Mardy’s illness? Her face?’

‘I don’t probe into other people’s misfortunes.’

‘Then you’re in the wrong job,’ I said. ‘Now, what about this veil she wore?’

‘Well, what about it?’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I said, ‘I want to know more about the veil. Was it a thick veil? Could you see her face behind it?’

‘It covered her face below the nose, and you couldn’t see through it, no.’

‘And none of that interested you at all.’

‘No.’

‘You knew her quite well?’

‘Reasonably well.’

‘But you never asked her what was the matter with her.’

‘No. I tell you I never—’

‘In fact,’ I said, ‘you didn’t do anything. Not even before she disappeared.’

‘I prefer to wait for people to come to me.’

‘How very cooperative of you,’ I said. ‘Did you go to any of her concerts?’

‘How do you know she gave any?’ he said quickly.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘her fame spread, you know. Now then, going back to this illness, this trouble with her face—’

‘I’ve told you all I know. All right, she was ill. Unfortunately, there’s nothing unusual about illness.’

‘That depends,’ I said. ‘Some people in this town appear not to have agreed with you about her illness. They seem to have thought it was very unusual.’

‘Just town gossip in my view.’

‘Your view’s the kind that needs strong glasses,’ I said, ‘and the Chief Constable evidently thought the same. Now, is there anything else you’d like to tell me about the Mardys before I find out on my own?’

He looked stiffly away at the wall and said: ‘There’s nothing more to tell.’

I said: ‘You must be the most uncooperative officer I’ve ever had to deal with.’

‘Deal with it on your own, then!’ he snarled. He banged his fist on the table. ‘I’ve been overridden. It’s your case now, so why don’t you just get up there and dig up what you want to know?’

‘Let’s hope no digging will be necessary,’ I said, ‘as much for your sake as anyone else’s.’

‘You can work on your bloody own!’

‘I’m going to,’ I said. ‘I’m used to working on my own – in fact, I like it that way. I’ll put it all together, you’ll see.’ I stood up. ‘And thank you for all your help.’

‘The reason you’ve not had much help from me,’ he said, ‘is that I don’t like you.’

‘Most people don’t,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think that’s the reason at all.’ I turned at the door and said: ‘I believe that this woman is dead and, if it turns out that she is, your pension will add up to a bag of rotten nuts and it could go bluer than that. No, don’t get up, Inspector.’

He hadn’t, and didn’t. He didn’t say or do anything. He didn’t look at me even.

I went to my car, which was on the yellow line where I had parked it the night before. The squad car, with the same two specialists in it, was also parked there.

I waved to them cheerily; but they didn’t wave back.

I got back to the hotel and rang the voice.

‘I want a bank account checked.’

‘Whose bank account?’

‘Inspector Kedward’s.’

‘Oh Christ,’ groaned the voice, ‘don’t tell me you’ve got up his nose already.’

‘I’ll get further up than his nose,’ I said, ‘I’ll get up into his brains and make them yelp.’

‘Why didn’t you get on with him?’

‘We got on like newly-weds,’ I said, ‘I don’t think.’

‘Ended in early divorce, did it?’ said the voice. ‘I might have known. What have you made of it so far? Have you seen this man Mardy yet?’

‘Look, I only got down here last night,’ I said. ‘No, I haven’t seen Mardy yet. There’s no rush over Mardy for an hour or two; he isn’t going to run away. No, I tell you, I’ve been busy with Kedward; I find him very interesting.’

‘What does interesting mean?’

‘You know what it means,’ I said, ‘it means bent. I want his bank statements checked out right over the last twelve months.’

‘You really are a dreadful man,’ said the voice, ‘cheeky and self-opinionated. I send you down to look into the business of a missing woman – no, you pin this inspector to a card instead.’

‘It’s a pity you weren’t with me when I saw him just now.’

‘What would that have told me?’

‘I keep telling you,’ I said patiently, ‘it would have told you that he was bent. Bent, crooked, not straight, as bent as an old banger’s front bumper.’

‘He’s the law in that town. What’s he got to hide?’

‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out.’ I sighed audibly into the phone. ‘Now can I have his bank statements checked, please?’

‘Wait a minute,’ said the voice uneasily, ‘you just look out what you’re doing, Sergeant. You’re not noted for tact.’

‘There’s no point being tactful with villains,’ I said. I described the interview I had had with Kedward and in the end even the voice saw what I was driving at. ‘He’s a nice loose thread to tug on to start with,’ I said, ‘so I’m going to give him a good hard tug.’

‘You mind what you’re doing,’ said the voice even more nervously. ‘You tug a corrupt police officer out of all this – well, you know what the press are like.’

‘You handle all that side of it,’ I said.

‘Indeed I will, Sergeant.’

‘All the same,’ I said, ‘whichever way you look at it, if he’s in there he’s in there, being corrupt.’

‘I’ll agree about this much,’ said the voice, ‘I find Kedward’s attitude to this Mrs Mardy incomprehensible. Why, when I was on the CID myself—’

‘Oh, not incomprehensible,’ I said. ‘There’s a perfectly good reason for it; Kedward’s no fool. It’s just a question of finding out what reason, and you can be sure money comes into it somewhere.’ I repeated: ‘So can I please have his bank statements checked? I’m not being tactless – he’ll never know his account’s been checked.’

‘I’m thinking about it,’ said the voice, ‘don’t ride me. Listen, did you accuse him of anything to his face?’

‘I’m not in a position to yet,’ I said, ‘but I asked him if he was hiding or withholding information from me about the Mardys, yes, because I had the feeling, as strongly as possible, that he was.’

‘Oh God, why is it,’ said the voice, ‘that every case you handle, something frightful blows up in it virtually straight away?’

‘Because there’s something frightful in every case, sir.’

‘Just calling me sir isn’t going to make me any better tempered,’ said the voice, ‘though I’ll make a note of it – the last time was Christmas Eve, and I got the impression that you’d had a few that day.’

‘Kedward’s bank statements,’ I said. ‘I want to go up and see Mardy now.’

‘All right,’ said the voice, ‘yes.’

‘You’ll get the results down here to me as soon as you can? By courier?’

‘Yes. You’re not to get in touch with his bank directly, do you understand?’

‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘photocopies are all I need.’

‘Tell me,’ said the voice, ‘I know it’s early days, but what’s your instinct about this Mardy woman? What do you think may have happened to her?’

I said: ‘I feel there’s every possibility that she’s dead.’

‘Well,’ said the voice, ‘that’s what we’re here for. All right, keep at it. You’re cheeky, I had a half-hour hate from Chief Inspector Bowman about you this morning, but you’re an energetic officer and you’ve got brains, I’ll say that for you.’ He rang off on me, muttering: ‘A corrupt police inspector he digs up – oh God, who ordered any of that?’

With the map I had I traced my way through the lanes north of Thornhill. I made mistakes, first driving up rutted tracks into a blank, frostbitten field, then turning off wrong at an unmarked crossroads. It had got completely dark with sleet, then icy rain, turning to hail, battering the high ground.

But at last I was speeding past an old brick wall with most of the coping gone and reached two stone pillars that supported half-open gates. I got out with the torch that I kept in the car. There was a mailbox screwed into the wall by the gates that read Thornhill Court, so I opened the gates, got back in the car and drove up five hundred yards of mud.

The house didn’t look beautiful in the headlights even while I was far from it; when I got up close it was hideous, sombre and huge. Fallen masonry, a lot of it, sprawled across the left-hand edge of the drive’s circle under the façade. I got out of the car; not one window was lit. All round me wild trees prayed soaking in the rain, their bare arms nagging the sky. I walked past a rusty Ford van with a flat front tyre and looked up at the five storeys, streaming with wet, that stooped over me. Then I noticed that one of the plate-glass front doors was swinging ajar in the gale, so I went up the porch steps and stood on the threshold. I shone my torch round the hall beyond; it was vast, unlit and empty. Rain spilled on to me from the balcony overhead.

I called out sharply: ‘Mardy? Dr William Mardy?’

There was no answer. I went in and stood in the hall. Facing me was an organ, its loft very high from the floor; the windows I picked out were stained glass, black now against the blackness outside. Far down from me was a marble fireplace, its breast rising to lose itself in false beams high above from which rain pattered
down everywhere, dripping at logical intervals on a table built to seat twelve.

I called out again: ‘William Mardy? Are you there?’

Nothing.

Now that I was in out of the wind my hearing adjusted itself to the house. At first I thought the place was silent except for the droning of the gale, but presently I became certain that this was not so. A long way off, it sounded as if it might be high above me upstairs, I was sure I heard the murmur of voices, muffled, as though coming from behind closed doors. The voices sounded like those of a mans and a womans, alternately strident and persuasive on both sides, though there was no making out any words.

What could be easier than to stand in a pub with a few drinks inside you and tell everyone that you’ve got solid nerves? All I know is that when I saw a feeble light wavering down the staircase from the gallery that ran away above each side of the organ, I was glad I had the open door behind me, the torch and the car. However, I stood quite still and turned the torch off. There was no sound of any voices now. The light came slowly nearer down the stairs, appearing and disappearing at the bends. I thought of Hamlet –
I’ll cross it though it blast me
. The light shivered, throwing patches along the sick walls; then it descended the last stairs and came over to where I stood. Above the lamp was the face of an elderly man.

I said: ‘Are you Dr Mardy?’

‘Yes. Who are you?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘You surely don’t want to talk to me,’ he said. ‘You should go and see Inspector Kedward down in the town. He knows all about my affairs.’

‘No, it’s you I want to talk to.’

‘I don’t generally talk to anyone very much.’

‘This is going to be different,’ I said. ‘You and I are going to have a long talk.’

He sighed. By his dim light I watched him shuffle towards a corner. I heard his hand feeling along the wall; a switch clicked and
a light sprang on. I looked at Dr Mardy. He was a hollowed-out shadow of a man in his sixties, as white as if his face had been dusted with chalk; his eyes were black and intense. He was dressed in an anorak, slippers and shapeless corduroys and had a dirty yellow scarf round his neck. He put his gas-lamp down on a table and turned it out; then he faced me. ‘What is it?’ he said in a dead tone. ‘Why can’t you leave me be? Are you a local man?’

‘No. From London.’

‘From the Yard?’

‘Yes, I’m working from A14, with Serious Crimes.’ I showed him my warrant card.

‘What is A14?’

‘Unexplained Deaths,’ I said. ‘I’m here to inquire about your wife.’

‘About Marianne,’ he said. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘Perhaps we could go somewhere and sit down,’ I said. ‘This’ll take a minute.’

‘Everything’s very primitive here, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I seldom receive people now.’

‘Why is that? You used to, you and your wife.’

‘My wife isn’t here.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘we’ll go into that presently.’

‘We could go into my study,’ he said, ‘it’s warm and hardly leaks at all – it’s my base here now.’ He relit his lamp, picked it up and said: ‘This way.’ He turned out the light in the hall and I followed him upstairs, We passed through suite after suite of rooms; they were all ruined. In some, books, reviews and medical magazines stood in piles up to the ceiling. In others the ceilings themselves had been shored up with beams. In one, a mountain of sodden books had collapsed.

When we had gone a reasonable way I asked: ‘How many rooms have you got here?’

‘Eighty.’

Everywhere plaster littered the floor; the house stank of wet. Curtain rails, the curtains themselves, lay where they had fallen.
Furniture leaned against beds steaming with damp; mould, green and black, had spread across the walls.

‘Be careful of this piece of floor here, there’s some dry rot.’