The dark side of my soul (15 page)

“No,” I thought it best not to mention Barbados.

“Good, just in case we need to speak to you again.”

“Oh, I shall be here if you have any more questions,” I tried to appear unconcerned.

I didn’t close the door until the two of them were in their car, then I shut it and breathed a long sigh of relief.

“He knows,” I said over my shoulder to Sandra who was standing behind me.

“Maybe,” she replied, “But he doesn’t have any proof, only circumstantial evidence and if your alibi holds up, which I think it will then you’re home free.”

Fourteen

An hour later I was sitting in the lounge with a large mug of sweet black coffee and reviewing my situation. The police obviously had me down as a suspect. In their language I was in the frame but they didn’t have the weapon. That was still safely sitting in the secret compartment in the bottom of the clock. There was also no apparent motive for the murders and no connection between the Boveys and the traveller killings, except for the fact that the same gun had been used in each case.

Of course I had had some dealings with the Boveys and I had been in Lyminge forest on the morning of the first shooting but that was all they had, circumstantial evidence. And if Sandra’s brilliant idea of going to the pub held up then I was above suspicion.

Then the doorbell rang and suddenly I was not so cock sure. The Detectives were back. My alibi hadn’t worked. I imagined them questioning the staff at the pub and one of the servers recalling the exact time we had arrived. I shouldn’t have been so damned certain it would succeed.

With a resigned feeling that I was going to have to face a far more intense interrogation, I got up and went to answer the door but as I turned out of the lounge into the hallway I saw only one figure through the frosted glass. I opened the door and was surprised to see David on my doorstep.

“Hey it’s good to see you,” I couldn’t have been more pleased to see him but straightaway it was apparent there was something seriously wrong. He was tense, nervous and unusually for David, he looked a mess. His grey slacks, normally so pristine, were crumpled and his purple sweater was tight and uneven, as though it had been thrown on in a hurry.

“Come in,” I said throwing the door wide open but he stayed on the step, motionless.

“Is Sandra in?” he asked.

“Yes she’s here, she’s in the garden,” I replied, thinking it was her he wanted to see.

“Then I won’t come in,” He hesitated for a moment and I noticed that one of his hands had a slight shake and that his eye was jiggling about more than usual. “It was you I wanted to see and I really wanted for us to be alone.”

“Are you all right?” I asked, concerned for his health. This was not the brash banker, the comical joker or even the religious spouting friend I had known for years. He was almost like a completely different person, a shadow of his former self.

“I’m fine, a little upset today, that’s all,” he said. “Do you have time to come with me for a spin in the car?” It was an unusual request. David was a man of precision. He never called without an invite or some form of prearrangement, so for him to arrive unannounced was curious and to want to go off driving around the countryside on the spur of the moment was even stranger.

“I thought we could go to the lighthouse at St Margaret’s bay, rekindle some old memories. We used to love the walk along the cliffs when Margaret was alive. Do you remember? Do you remember how we used to take the walk along the clifftop from Dover and end up in that lovely little café in the lighthouse for tea and cakes? Margaret always said they made the best scones in the whole country.”

The clifftop between Dover and St Margaret’s bay was without doubt one of the most beautiful spots in the area and it was one of the favourite places that we visited as a foursome when David’s wife was alive. From the top of the high chalk cliffs there is a spectacular view of the English Channel toward France and leaving the National Trust visitor centre at Dover there is a magnificent two mile walk to the South Foreland lighthouse, which itself is an historic landmark on the white cliffs.

I recalled the happy memories. “Yes we had some nice times on those walks but it’s quite a drive. Are you sure you want to go there now?” I was becoming more and more concerned. He seemed agitated and almost neurotic.

“I have a lot to tell you and I want us to be completely alone. I thought the cliffs at Dover would be a perfect place and it’s a wonderful day. What with one thing and another we haven’t spent any time together for ages. It doesn’t take long to get to Dover. What do you say?”

Put like that it sounded more reasonable. “I take it you don’t want Sandra to come?”

“Oh no, just the two of us, men’s talk” He smiled but his hand was still shaking and his eye moved erratically.

It certainly was a beautiful sunny day and the fresh air on the clifftop would probably do me good, besides which I needed to know what was bothering him enough to cause a complete personality change, so after a short consideration spiced with a little apprehension I agreed. “Okay, let me go and tell Sandra.”

David had bought another new motor. This one was a top of the range BMW and as I put on the seat belt I examined the gadgets and dials on the dashboard. The car had more of them than on a jetfighter.

“How long have you had the new car,” I asked as he pulled away.

“A couple of weeks,” he replied. “The guy gave me a real good deal, I couldn’t refuse. You know me, I can’t turn down a good money saving offer.”

“Even if it means spending fifty grand,” my comment made David grin and he sped into a tight bend a touch too quickly. I had forgotten how fast he liked to drive. Margaret was always telling him to take it easy or to slow down and he would listen to her. Somehow I thought my voice would not carry the same weight and may even antagonise him, so I kept quiet and let him concentrate on the road ahead. On the wheel his hand was firm but I was aware of the occasional nervous twitch.

In what seemed no time we were on the dual carriageway to Dover and passing a line of heavy lorries on the inside lane as though they were stationary. The speedometer was hovering around the one hundred mile per hour mark. I remained silent, allowing him to keep all his attention on his driving. There was undoubtedly something wrong with him.

As we came over the rise in the hill, the town and its port came into view. A ferry heading for France was leaving the harbour and heading out into the unusually clear blue water of the English Channel. Further out, other shipping made its way smoothly through the glistening sea and the coast of France could just be seen in the distance.

“I love this view, this part of the world,” David said as we shot down the hill towards the town.

“Don’t you worry about collecting speeding tickets?” I asked, tearing my eyes from the scenery and again looking at the speedometer.

“There’s no point having a car like this if you don’t use it to its full potential,” he countered, braking hard as we approached the first of a series of roundabouts on our way through the town.

For once the port traffic was flowing smoothly and we seemed to catch all the green lights at the junctions so it wasn’t long before we were heading up to the National Trust visitor centre on the other side of the town.

“This is a long way to come just to tell me something,” I ventured but David remained tight lipped and solemnly held his concentration on the road ahead. It was then that I noticed the perspiration glistening on his forehead.

At last when we were nearly at the visitor centre he spoke. “I wanted to come here because the four of us liked it so much. I thought it might bring back old memories.”

I realised that what he had to tell me was very important to him and that he was only going to enlighten me when we were walking out on the cliffs so I resigned myself to wait but I couldn’t help wonder what had brought on this sudden change in his personality.

David was a lifelong member of the National Trust so we swept through the gate at the centre with a wave of his pass and after bumping along the unmade track he pulled up next to a couple of other parked cars that faced the sea.

“You see, it didn’t take long,” he said as he got out of the car.

“Not the way you drive,” I replied light-heartedly but he was already striding away.

The scenic walk was not going to be particularly strenuous, the inclines were fairly gentle but with his extra weight I wondered how David would cope with the four mile return trip to the tea rooms at the lighthouse. He, however seemed unperturbed and set off at a scintillating pace along the narrow chalky pathway that led up to the top of the cliffs. With a bit of effort I caught up with him and we soon reached the higher ground where we were rewarded with a magnificent view of the English Channel on one side and the green undulating countryside on the other.

The sun was shining out of a beautiful blue sky with only a few small fluffy clouds riding the wind. Far out to sea, ships of all shapes and sizes ploughed along one of the busiest commercial shipping lanes in the world. A tanker was followed by a huge container ship that resembled a floating block of flats. In their wake were several other smaller craft while closer in the white sails of yachts appeared as little more than specks in the calm blue water.

Even in good weather it was rare for the sea off the south eastern coast of England to be this colour and it made a pleasant change from the slate grey waves that normally beat like angry fists against the bottom of the cliffs.

On turning away from the seascape to face the open green countryside I found the grasses and flora that bent lazily in the breeze to be just as inspiring. With the sun’s heat tempered by the breeze blowing in over the sea it was a perfect day and easy to see why we, as a foursome, had come here so many times in the past. That, however, still did not explain why David had chosen today to return.

He was already out of breath and slightly red in the face as we set off along the clifftop route. The path meandered off into the distance, a white ribbon that ran through the green grass along the side of the cliff edge. Its uneven white surface held an attraction that fascinated me and I wondered how many other thousands of feet had trod this way before.

In some places the track was wide enough so that we could walk side by side, at other points it narrowed, forcing us to go single file. On either side the long waving grass gently swayed in the salty breeze as if to some silent tune. Generally the route followed the edge of the cliff, not so near as to be dangerous but close enough so that you could occasionally glimpse the top of the sheer white wall that descended to the sea below. Here and there the grass was trodden down in an alternative route, where sightseers had gone to the very edge of the precipice to look at or take pictures of the vertical drop, or maybe get a better view of the seagulls nesting in the holes and ridges in the chalk.

The main track was close enough to the edge for me. I was not good with heights and anyway although the scenery was beautiful, today I was here for another reason, one which I had yet to discover.

On a weekend in the summer this marvellous spot would be full of people heading one way or another along the route but today, a weekday in April we were almost alone. Only one other couple could be seen in the distance and beyond them another small group but apart from them we had the area to ourselves. David had said that he wanted to go to a place where we could not be overheard. In that case he had certainly found the right location but I knew that was not the only reason he had brought me here, there had to be more to it than that.

David strode on along the uneven surface but the extra weight he had gained since he was last here soon began to take its toll and his breathing became heavy and laboured, his face more coloured and I also noticed that he had developed a slight limp. He seemed to be dragging his left leg.

“What’s with the limp? You didn’t have that before,” I asked.

He was watching the path ahead, trying to avoid the loose pieces of chalk that littered the track, he had already stumbled a couple of times.

“My left knee is playing up. I’ve been to the doctor. He said it’s probably arthritis but he’s referred me to a specialist. I’m going to see him next week.” His voice was clinical and uncompromising, answering my question but volunteering no more information. He did not want to make conversation, at least not until he was ready.

We moved on in silence but it was clear that he was finding it heavy going. The path narrowed and we had to go single file for a while, David in front, until it widened out and I moved up beside him.

“It didn’t seem to be this far before,” he said between breaths.

“That’s because when we last came here with the girls we were talking to each other, passing the time of day, enjoying ourselves. Conversation makes any journey seem shorter. Today we are just pounding on with little or no banter.” I thought it best not to mention that we were also several years older and that he was in a lot worse shape than on our last visit.

David pushed on without reply but after another short spell he stopped to get his breath and I took the opportunity to press him. “What’s this all about David? Why are we here?”

The air he inhaled sounded like a rasp in the throat and his chest was heaving. He really was in poor condition and for the first time I realised how unkind to him the last few years had been.

My friend gave me a long sorrowful look, his wandering eye was almost still and when his breathing had stabilized he said, “I wanted you to remember what it was like when we were real friends, when we could confide in each other and be honest with each other.” He turned and looked out to sea. “I wanted you to remember.” It was a strange thing to say.

“But we’re still good friends. We may not see as much of each other as we used to but that doesn’t change anything.” I could not understand what was eating him but I guessed it probably had something to do with Julie. Her brothers had been murdered and last night her father too had been killed and even if they were a totally dysfunctional family the deaths must have had some effect on her. As far as I was aware David didn’t know anything about her relatives so whatever pain she had, she had to bear it alone.