A Certain Justice (48 page)

I had come well prepared: a warm coat, a woolly cap into which I’d tucked my hair, a torch and a paperback copy of twentieth-century poetry. I knew that the wait might be long. He could be out celebrating with friends, although I didn’t think of Ashe as a boy who had friends. He could be drinking, and I hoped that he wasn’t. Our negotiations would be delicate enough. I needed him sober. He could be looking for sex after the months of deprivation. I didn’t think he was. I had seen him only for those few weeks, but I felt that I knew him and this meeting was predestined. Once I would have rejected such a thought as sentimental irrational nonsense. Now, at least with part of my mind, I knew that fate or luck had led me to this moment. I knew that in the end he would come home. Where else could he go?
I sat there, not reading but waiting and thinking, in a silence and seclusion that seemed absolute. I had the feeling, always agreeable to me, that I was absolutely alone since no one in the world knew where I was. But the silence was internal. The world around me was full of noise. I could hear the constant rhythmic boom of the traffic on West way, seeming sometimes as close as a wild and threatening sea, and at others an almost reassuring memory of that ordinary and safer world of which I had once been part.
I knew when he had come home. The kitchen window, like the others, had been boarded up, but only partly, enough to ensure security. There was a narrow slit at each end. Now a light shone through and I knew that he was in the kitchen. Slowly I drew myself up, feeling the ache of my muscles, and stared at the door willing him to open it. But I knew that he would. Curiosity if nothing else would compel him. And now, at last, the door opened and I saw him, a black silhouette outlined in bright light. He didn’t speak. I shone the beam of my torch up wards on my face. Still he didn’t speak. I said:
“I see you got my note.”
“Of course. Wasn’t I meant to?”
I had heard his voice before: those two firmly spoken words in court, “Not guilty,” and his answers in examination and cross-examination. It wasn’t unattractive but was somehow unnatural, as if he had acquired it by practice and wasn’t yet sure whether he wanted to keep it.
He said, “You’d better come in,” and stood aside.
I smelt the kitchen before I saw it. These were old, sour smells embedded in wood and walls and in the corners of cupboards, never to be got rid of now until the house crashed down in rubble. But I saw that he had made an attempt to clean up and I found this disconcerting. And then he did something else that surprised me. He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket — I can remember now the size and whiteness of it — and flicked it over a chair seat before motioning me to sit. He sat down opposite and we regarded each other across the stained and torn vinyl that covered the kitchen table.
I had thought of all the ploys I might need. How to appeal to his vanity and his greed without making it obvious that I judged him to be vain and greedy. How to compliment without being suspiciously fulsome. How to offer money without suggesting that he was being patronized or too easily bought. I had expected to be frightened; I would, after all, be alone with a murderer. I’d sat through the whole of the trial. I knew that he had killed his aunt, and killed her no more than yards from where I was sitting now. I had thought about what I’d do if he threatened violence. If I became unduly frightened I would say that someone I trusted knew where I was and would send the police if I didn’t return within the hour. But, sitting opposite him, I felt curiously at ease. He didn’t at first speak, and we sat in a silence that was neither oppressive nor embarrassing. I had expected him to be more volatile, trickier than he was proving to be.
I put my proposition to him simply and without emotion. I said: “Venetia Aldridge has a daughter, Octavia, who is just eighteen. I’m willing to pay you ten thousand pounds to seduce her and another fifteen thousand if she agrees to marry you. I’ve seen her. She’s not particularly attractive and she isn’t happy. That last should make it easier. But she is an only child and she does have money. For me it’s a matter of revenge.”
He didn’t reply, but the eyes looking into mine grew blank, as if he had retreated into a private world of calculation and assessment.
After a minute, he got up, filled and switched on a kettle and took down from a cupboard two mugs and a jar of instant coffee. There was a plastic shopping bag beside the sink. He had called at a supermarket for food and a carton of milk on his way home. When the water boiled he poured it onto a heaped teaspoonful of coffee in each of the mugs, placed one in front of me and pushed the sugar and the carton of milk towards me.
He said: “Ten grand to fuck her, another fifteen if we get engaged. Revenge comes dear. You could have Aldridge killed for less.”
“If I knew who to hire. If I was willing to risk blackmail. I don’t want her killed, I want her to suffer.”
“She’d suffer if you kidnapped the girl.”
“Too complicated and too risky. How would I do it? Where would I hold her? I don’t have access to people who manage these things. The beauty of my revenge is that no one can touch me for it even if they find proof. But they won’t find proof. They won’t be able to touch either of us. And she’ll mind it more than a kidnapping. Kidnapping would gain her sympathy, good publicity. This will hurt her pride.”
I knew from the second that the words left my mouth that they were a mistake. I shouldn’t have suggested that an engagement to him would be demeaning. I saw the mistake in his eyes, the second of blankness and then the pupils seeming to widen. I saw it in the tensing of his body as he leaned across the table towards me. I smelt for the first time his masculinity as I might smell a dangerous animal. I didn’t speak too quickly; he mustn’t see that I’d recognized my error. I let my words drop into the silence like stones.
“Venetia Aldridge likes to be in control. She doesn’t love her daughter, but she wants her to conform, to do her credit, to be respectable. She’d like her to marry a successful lawyer, someone she’s chosen and approves of. And she’s a very private woman. If you and Octavia are romantically linked it will make a good story for the tabloids; they’ll pay good money for it. You can imagine the headlines. It’s not the kind of publicity she’d welcome.”
It wasn’t enough. He said very quietly: “Twenty-five grand for a bit of social embarrassment. I don’t believe it.”
He was demanding the truth. He knew it already but he was insisting that I put it into words. And if I didn’t, then there would be no bargain. It was then that I told him about Dermot Beale and my granddaughter. But I didn’t tell him Emily’s name. I couldn’t bring myself to speak it in that house.
I said: “Aldridge thinks that you killed your aunt. She believes you to be a murderer. That’s how she gets her kicks, defending people she thinks are guilty. There’s no triumph in defending the innocent. She doesn’t love her daughter, that’s her guilt. How do you think she’ll feel if Octavia gets engaged to someone her mother believes is a killer, someone she defended? She’ll have to live with that knowledge — but she won’t be able to do a thing about it. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m willing to pay for.”
He said: “And what do you believe? You were at the trial. Do you think I did it?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
He leaned back. I could almost believe that I heard the satisfied release of his breath.
He said: “She thinks she got me off. Is that what you think?”
And now to risk the flattery. “No, you got yourself off. I heard your evidence. If she’d kept you out of the witness box you’d be in prison now.”
“That’s what she wanted to do at first, keep me out of the box. I told her, no way.”
“You were right, but she has to take all the credit. It has to be her victory, her triumph.”
Again that curiously companionable pause. Then he said: “So what are you paying for? What do you want me to do?”
“Sleep with the daughter, make her love you. In the end, marry her.”
“And what do you want me to do with her after I’ve married her?”
It was only when he spoke those words that I began to realize what I was dealing with. He wasn’t being ironic or sarcastic. The question was perfectly simple. He could have been speaking of an animal, an article of furniture. If I’d been capable of turning back, I would have turned back then.
I said: “You do what you like. Fly to the Caribbean, take her on a cruise, go to the Far East and dump her, buy a house and settle down. You could separate whenever you wanted, divorce without consent after five years. Or her mother would probably pay you off, if that’s what you want. You won’t lose anyway. After I’ve paid over the last of the money I shan’t be in touch with you again.”
I had realized by then that he was both more perceptive and more intelligent than I had expected. That made him more dangerous, but paradoxically it made him easier to deal with. He had summed me up, had known that I wasn’t some elderly freak, that the offer was genuine, the money there for the taking. And once he’d known that, then his decision was made.
And that was how it was done, in that stinking kitchen over that stained table, two people without conscience bargaining over a body and soul. Except, of course, that I didn’t believe that Octavia had a soul or that there was anything in that room except the two of us, or any power which would alter or influence what we said and did and planned. The bargaining was perfectly amicable, but I knew that I had to let him win. He mustn’t be humiliated, even by a minor defeat. Equally, he would despise me for a too-easy capitulation. In the end I gave way to an extra thousand on the preliminary payment and an extra two on the final sum.
He said: “I’ll need something to start with. I can get money, I can always get money, but I haven’t any yet. I can get it when I want it, but it takes a bit of time.”
I heard it again in his voice, the childish swagger, the dangerous mixture of conceit and self-doubt.
I said: “Yes, you’ll need money if you’re going to take her out, get her interested. She’s used to money, she’s had it all her life. I’ve brought two thousand pounds in cash with me. You can take that now and I’ll set it off against the preliminary sum.”
“No, it has to be extra.”
I paused, and then said: “All right, it can be extra.”
I’d had no fear that he would take the money from me, perhaps kill me. Why should I fear? He was after much more than two thousand pounds. I bent down to my bag and took out the money. It was in twenty-pound notes.
I said: “It would have been easier if I’d brought fifties, but they’re rather suspect at present. There’ve been so many forgeries. Twenties are safer.”
I didn’t count them out in front of him, but handed over the four bundles of five hundred pounds each in a rubber band. He didn’t count them either. He left them in front of him on the table, and then said: “What about the arrangement? How shall I report progress? Where shall we meet when I’m ready to collect the first eleven thousand pounds?”
Ever since the first day of the trial I had been wondering about this. I thought of the church at the end of Sedgemoor Crescent, St James’s, which is kept open for most of the day. My first idea was that it would be convenient to meet there — but then I decided against it for two reasons. A young man entering alone, particularly Ashe, would be noticeable to anyone keeping watch in the church. And I found, despite my loss of faith, that I had a reluctance to use a sacred building for a purpose I knew in my heart to be evil. I had thought of large empty spaces, perhaps at one of the statues in Hyde Park, but that might be inconvenient for Ashe. I didn’t want to risk his not turning up. In the end I knew that I would have to give him my telephone number. It seemed a small risk. After all, he would still not know my address and I could always change the number if it proved necessary. So I wrote it down and handed it to him. I told him to telephone me at eight o’clock in the morning whenever he needed to, but to begin with at least every other day.
He said: “I’ll need to know something about her, where to find her.”
I gave him the Pelham Place address and told him: “She lives with her mother but in a separate basement flat. There’s also a housekeeper, but she won’t be any trouble. Octavia’s not doing a job at present as far as I know, so she’s probably bored. Once you’ve got some kind of relationship established I’ll need to see you together. Where will you take her? Have you got a favourite pub?”
“I don’t go to pubs. I’ll ring you and let you know when I’ll be leaving the house with her, probably on my bike. You’ll be able to see us together then.”
I said: “I shall have to be fairly discreet. I can’t loiter. Octavia knows me. I work occasionally at the house. How long do you think this will take you?”
“As long as it needs to take. I’ll tell you as soon as I have news. I may need more money to be going on with.”
“You’ve got the two thousand pounds. You can have the rest in instalments as and when you need it, and the final payment when you’re married.”
He looked at me with his dark withdrawn eyes and said: “Suppose I get married and then you refuse to pay?”
I said: “Neither of us is a fool, Mr. Ashe. I have a greater regard for my own safety than to think of doing that.”
After that I got up and left. I don’t remember that he said another word, but I do recall his dark figure against the light from the kitchen as he stood at the door and watched me go. I walked all the way to Shepherd’s Bush, unaware of the distance, of my tiredness, of the dazzle and swish of the passing traffic. I was conscious only of a heady exhilaration, as if I was young again and in love.
He didn’t waste any time, but, then, I didn’t expect him to. As arranged, he rang me two days later at eight o’clock in the morning to tell me he had established contact. He didn’t tell me how and I didn’t ask. Then he rang again to say that he and Octavia planned to go to the Old Bailey on 8 October, when her mother was due to appear, and would together see her after the case and tell her that they were engaged. If I wanted proof I could hang about the Old Bailey and see them together for myself. But that I knew would have been too risky; besides, I already had the proof I needed. Ashe had told me a day earlier when I could see them both leaving Pelham Place on his motorcycle. It was ten o’clock in the morning. I was there; I saw them. I had also telephoned Mrs. Buckley, ostensibly just for a chat, and inquired about Octavia. She had told me little, but that little was enough. Ashe was established in Octavia’s life.