A Mind to Murder (28 page)

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Come on downstairs. I’ll light the gas stove. You’re shivering.”

They went down to the basement together, their footsteps echoing in the eerie, presageful calm of a house which, with tomorrow, would awaken to voices, movement and the ceaseless hum of purposeful activity. She began walking on tiptoe and, when she spoke, it was in whispers. At the top of the stairs she reached for his hand and he could feel hers trembling. Halfway down, there was a sudden faint noise and she started.

“What is it? What’s that noise?”

“Nothing. Tigger in his scratch tin, I imagine.”

When they were in the restroom and the fire was lit, he threw himself into one of the armchairs and smiled up at her. It was the devil of a nuisance that she should turn up now but somehow he must hide his irritation. With any luck he could get rid of her fairly quickly. She would be out of the clinic well before ten.

“Well?” he asked. Suddenly she was on the rug at his feet and clasping his thighs. Her pale eyes searched his in passionate entreaty.

“Darling, I’ve got to know! I don’t mind what you’ve done as long as I know. I love you and I want to help. Darling, you must tell me if you’re in any trouble.”

It was worse than he feared. Somehow she had got hold of something. But how, and what? Keeping his voice light he asked: “What sort of trouble, for God’s sake? You’ll be saying next that I killed her.”

“Oh, Peter, please don’t joke! I’ve been worried. There is something wrong, I know there is. It’s the money isn’t it? You took that fifteen pounds.”

He could have laughed aloud with relief. In a surge of emotion he put his arms round her and drew her down upon him, his voice muffled in her hair.

“You silly kid. I could have helped myself to the petty cash any time if I wanted to steal. What the hell started you off on this nonsense?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Why should you take it? Oh, darling, don’t be angry with me. I’ve been so worried. You see, it was the paper.”

“What paper, for God’s sake.” It was all he could do not to shake her into coherence. He was glad that she could not see his face. So long as he need not meet her eyes, he could fight his anger and the fatal, insidious panic. What in God’s name was she trying to say?

“The
Standard
. That sergeant came to see us this evening. I’d been to fetch the fish and chips. When I was unwrapping them in the kitchen, I looked at the paper they were wrapped in. It was Friday’s
Standard
and it had a large picture of that air crash all over the front page. Then I remembered that we
had used your
Standard
to wrap up Tigger’s food and the front page was different. I hadn’t seen that picture before.”

He tightened his hold on her and said very quietly: “Did you say anything about this to the police?”

“Darling, of course I didn’t! Suppose it made them suspect you! I didn’t say anything to anyone but I needed to see you. I don’t care about the fifteen pounds. I don’t care if you did meet her in the basement. I know you didn’t kill her. All I want is for you to trust me. I love you and I want to help. I can’t bear it if you keep things from me.”

That’s what they all said but there wasn’t one in a million who really wanted to know the truth about a man. For a second he was tempted to tell her, spit the whole brutal story into her silly, pleading face and watch the sudden draining away of pity and love. She could probably bear to know about Bolam. What she couldn’t bear would be the knowledge that he hadn’t blackmailed for her sake, that he hadn’t acted to preserve their love, that there wasn’t any love to preserve and never had been. He would have to marry her, of course. He had always known that it might be necessary. Only she could effectively witness against him and there was one sure way to stop her tongue. But time was short. He planned to be in Paris by the end of the week. Now it looked as if he wouldn’t be travelling alone.

He thought quickly. Shifting her weight to the arm of the chair but still keeping his arms around her, his face resting against her cheek, he said softly: “Listen, darling. There’s something you’ve got to know. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to worry you. I did take the fifteen quid. It was a bloody stupid thing to do but there’s no sense in worrying about that now. I suppose Miss Bolam might have guessed. I don’t know. She didn’t say anything to me and it wasn’t I who phoned her. But I was in the basement after she was killed. I left the back
door open and came back that way. I get sick of that old fool Cully booking me in and out as if I were as nutty as a patient and asking for the paper as soon as I appear. Why can’t he buy his own, the mean old devil. I thought I’d fool him for once. When I came in at the basement door, I saw that there was a light in the record room and the door was ajar, so I went to look. I found her body. I knew that I daren’t be found there, particularly if they ever discovered about the fifteen quid, so I said nothing and left again by the back door and came in as usual by the front. I’ve kept quiet ever since. I must, darling. I’ve got to take up the Bollinger by the end of this week and the police wouldn’t let me go if they started suspecting me. If I don’t get away now, I’ll never have the chance again as long as I live.”

That at least was true. He had to get away now. It had become an obsession. It wasn’t only the money, the freedom, the sun and the colours. It was the final vindication of the lean, pallid years of struggle and humiliation. He had to take up the Bollinger. Other painters could fail here and still succeed in the end. But not he.

And, even now, he might fail. It was a thin story. He was struck, as he spoke, by the inconsistencies, the improbabilities. But it hung together—just. He couldn’t see how she could prove it false. And she wouldn’t want to try. But he was surprised by her reaction.

“By the end of this week! You mean, you’re going to Paris almost at once. What about the clinic … your job?”

“For God’s sake, Jenny, what the hell does that matter? I shall leave without notice and they’ll find someone else. They’ll have to do without me.”

“And me?”

“You’re coming with me, of course. I always meant that you should. Surely you knew that?”

“No,” she said, and it seemed to him that her voice held a great sadness. “No, I never knew that.”

He tried to assume a tone of confidence tinged with slight reproach.

“I never discussed it because I thought there were some things we didn’t need to say. I know the time’s short but it’ll be easier if you don’t have to stick around too long at home waiting. They’d only get suspicious. You’ve got a passport, haven’t you? Didn’t you go to France with the Guides that Easter? What I suggest is that we marry by special licence as soon as possible—after all, we’ve got the money now—and write to your parents when we get to Paris. You do want to come, don’t you, Jenny?”

Suddenly she was shaking in his arms and he felt the warm wetness of her tears stinging his face.

“I thought you meant to go without me. The days went by and you never said anything. Of course, I want to come. I don’t care what happens as long as we’re together. But we can’t get married. I never told you because I was afraid you’d be angry and you’ve never asked me anything about myself. I can’t get married because I’m married already.”

The car had turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road but traffic was heavy and they were making poor time. Dalgliesh sat back in his seat, as if all day were before him, but inwardly he was fidgeting with anxiety. He could discover no rational cause for this impatience. The call at the Steen was merely speculative. The chances were that Nagle, if indeed he had called at the clinic, would have left before they arrived. Probably he was even now putting down his evening pint in some Pimlico pub. At the next corner the traffic lights were against them and the car slowed to a halt for the third time in a hundred yards.

Suddenly Martin said: “He couldn’t have got away with it for
long, even by killing Bolam. Sooner or later Mrs. Fenton—or another victim maybe—would have turned up at the Steen.”

Dalgliesh replied: “But he might well have got away with it for long enough to take up the Bollinger. And even if the blackmailing came to light before he got away—what could we prove? What can we prove now, come to that? With Bolam dead what jury could be sure beyond reasonable doubt that she wasn’t the blackmailer? Nagle’s only got to say that he remembers seeing the odd envelope addressed in green ink and that he placed it with the AO’s post. Fenton will confirm that he thought the telephone calls came from a woman. And blackmailers do occasionally come to a violent end. Nagle wouldn’t go on with it after Mrs. Fenton’s call. Even that would help his case. Bolam dies and the blackmailing stops. Oh, I know all the arguments against it! But what can anyone prove?”

Martin said stolidly: “He’ll try to be too clever. They always do. The girl’s under his thumb, of course, poor little devil. If she sticks to her story that he wasn’t alone long enough to make that call …”

“She’ll stick all right, Sergeant.”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know about the husband. If she looks dangerous, he probably thinks that he can stop her tongue by marrying her.”

Dalgliesh said quietly: “What we’ve got to do is to pull him in before he finds out that he can’t.”

In the porters’ room at the Steen, Nagle was writing a letter. He wrote easily. The glib and lying phrases flowed with unexpected ease. He would have died rather than send such a letter. It would have been unbearable to think that any eyes could see this spate of emotional claptrap and recognize it as his. But the
letter never would be read except by Jenny. Within thirty minutes it would be thrust into the boiler, its purpose served and the oily phrases only an uncomfortable memory. In the meantime he might as well make it convincing. It was easy enough to guess what Jenny would want him to say. He turned over the paper and wrote:

It was a good ending, he thought. It would appeal to Jenny, anyway, and no one else was going to see it. He called to her and pushed the paper across the table.

“Will this do?”

She read it in silence. “I suppose so.”

“Damn it all, kid, what’s wrong with it?” He felt a surge of anger that his careful effort should be found inadequate. He had expected, and had braced himself to meet, her astonished gratitude.

She said quietly: “Nothing’s wrong with it.”

“You’d better write your bit then. Not on the end. Take a fresh sheet.”

He slid the paper across the table at her, not meeting her eyes. This was taking time and he could not be sure how much time there was.

“Better make it short,” he said. She took up the pen but made no effort to write.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“There isn’t much you need say. I’ve said it all.”

“Yes,” she said with great sadness. “You’ve said it all.”

He kept the rising irritation from his voice and told her: “Just write that you’re sorry to cause them unhappiness but you can’t help yourself. Something like that. Damn it all, you’re not going to the end of the world. It’s up to them. If they want to see you, I shan’t stop them. Don’t pile the agony on too much. I’m going upstairs to mend that lock in Miss Saxon’s room. When I come down, we’re going to celebrate. There’s only beer, but tonight you’ll drink beer, my darling, and like it.”

He took a screwdriver from the tool box and went out quickly before she had time to protest. His last glimpse was of her frightened face staring after him. But she didn’t call him back.

Upstairs it was a moment’s work only to slip on a pair of rubber gloves and prise open the door of the dangerous-drugs cupboard. It gave with a terrifyingly loud crack so that he stood rooted for a moment half expecting to hear her call. But there was no sound. He remembered clearly that scene some six months ago when one of Dr. Baguley’s patients had become violent and disorientated. Nagle had helped to control him while Baguley had called to Sister for paraldehyde. Nagle recalled the words.

“We’ll give it in beer. It’s pretty filthy stuff but they can hardly taste it in beer. Odd that. Two drams, Sister, to 2 cc.”

And Jenny, who disliked beer, would taste it even less. Quickly he put the screwdriver and the small blue bottle of paraldehyde in his jacket pocket and slipped out, lighting his way with the torch. All the clinic curtains were drawn, but it was important to show as little light as possible. He needed at least another undisturbed half-hour.

She looked up in surprise at his quick reappearance. He went over to her and kissed the back of her neck.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I shouldn’t have left you. I’d forgotten that you might be nervous. The lock can wait, anyway. How’s the letter going?”

She pushed it over to him. He turned his back on her to read the few carefully penned lines deliberately, taking his time. But his luck had held. It was as neat and convincing a suicide note as was ever read in a coroner’s court. He couldn’t have dictated anything better. He felt a surge of confidence and excitement as he did when a painting was going well. Nothing could spoil it now. Jenny had written:

He put the letter back on the table and went to pour out the beer, his actions hidden by the open door of the cupboard. God, the stuff did stink! Quickly he added the foaming light ale and called to her.

“Are you happy?”

“You know I am.”

“Then let’s drink to it. To us, darling.”

“To us.”

She grimaced as the liquid met her lips. He laughed. “You look as if you’re drinking poison. Knock it back, girl. Like this!”