Apportionment of Blame (17 page)

His head fell forward again. I waited.

“All right,” he said. “So what are you going to do?”

“I am tempted to go to the police, like I said. It's what you deserve. But I think perhaps I'll let your sister decide.”

“You stay away from her.”

“Oh. I've already called again. It was pissing down last time I went and she very kindly offered me a towel to dry off. I thought that was a very generous thing to do.”

“She never told me.”

“Why would she? She wasn't frightened. A little nervous, perhaps, but not frightened.”

He was looking at me now, rather uncertainly. Perhaps he was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he could see that I now held a trump card, in fact two cards. I could tell his sister, and I could go to the police.

In point of fact he had done me a favour. I'd been wondering how to find an excuse to visit Ilse again, and now I had one. He had given it to me on a plate. But I was still left with the question, why scare me off?

“Whatever it is you're trying to hide, I'll find it,” I told him with as much confidence as I could muster. “There must be something to make it worth your while going to these lengths.”

I was watching to see if my words were making any impression.

“Now stay away from me. It's lucky for you my friend wasn't badly hurt. But she might still press charges. In fact she would if I asked her to. If I don't ever see you or your truck again, I shall leave you to get on with your life. Perhaps you should leave your sister to get on with hers.”

He grunted. There was not a great deal he could say.

“Are we agreed?”

“I suppose.”

“Just remember what'll happen if I so much as clap eyes on you again.”

I looked across at his partner in crime, and as I did so my eyes caught sight of a crash helmet resting behind the cab seats.

“What's this?” I said, twisting round to reach it.

“It's mine,” Ilse's brother shouted angrily, but I'd already seen half of the stencil on its back and knew I'd seen it before.

“Yours, is it?”

“Yeah! What of it?”

“So where were you first thing this morning?”

“What's that got to do with you?”

“Visiting your sister, were you?”

“So?”

“You must have stayed the night to have been outside my station early this morning.”

“Who says I was outside your station?”

“I do. I recognise your helmet and I have the bruise to confirm your poor riding skills. If you wish to continue to be incognito as you ride, I would get rid of the skull and crossbones if I were you.”

He was looking at me and I knew from his expression that I was right.

“So now I have two reasons to report you, attempted murder and kidnapping.”

“I wasn't trying to kill you.”

“It felt like it to me,” I said, rubbing my arm. “And adding together the other things you've done - which reminds me.”

“What now?”

“Who is it that writes your notes for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. ‘Look under the bench', ‘You're next', ‘I told you to leave it alone' - all those.”

“It was ‘im,” he said, pointing with his thumb to his partner in crime.

“Not a good choice. Next time, choose someone who can spell.”

The writer turned away to look out of the side window.

Ilse's brother made a sound which earlier generations would have described as “Hurrumph!”

“So, do we have a deal?” I asked him.

“If you leave my sister alone.”

“Yeah, yeah, we've been through all that. No more threats. No more notes. I don't want to hear or read a dicky bird from you. Do you understand? If I do, well, you know what'll happen. The police will soon find you, and they'll have to go to your sister to get your address. So if you don't want your sister bothered, stay out of my life.”

I hoped that my attempt at a threatening demeanour was having the required effect. I'm no Philip Marlow or Frank Cannon, just not the threatening type - not even subtly like Sydney Greenstreet in Maltese Falcon. And I'm no Jim Rockford, who could persuade anyone to do anything. But from his face I saw I'd made my point, so I climbed down from the cab, crossed the road and went up to my office.

The phone was ringing.

“Greg? Hi. Are you all right?” It was Joyce. “I've been trying to get back to you on your mobile, but I couldn't get through.”

“I was in the tube for a while. What's up?”

“I was thinking. It can't be Gemma.”

“What do you mean?”

“I agree that if someone caused Helen's death, it must be the same person who bundled me off in the garden. Did Gemma know where your office is?

“No. You're right. It can't be her. Anyway something else has happened since my last call?”

“What?”

Now it's a funny thing about honesty. It is undoubtedly the best policy most of the time, but sometimes it's kinder to be less forthcoming. And then again, at other times, things are not even as simple as that.

Knowing the threat was now contained would help put Joyce's mind at rest, but if she knew who had taken her from the garden, she might want to press charges, and I had made a deal, of sorts.

“Greg?”

“Yes, I'm here. I know who was making the threats.”

“How on earth did you find them?”

“They found me. I told you they're not very bright.”

“Should I come up so we can go to the police?”

“Just a minute. Can we think this thing through? Knowing who it was has given me a useful lead.”

“What lead? What have you found out?”

“I haven't found out anything as such, I just said it was a lead. But it could well answer a lot of questions in the long term.”

“What do you mean?”

“These guys can be a pain in the neck if they keep on harrassing me. And you. But I don't believe they are essentially dangerous. I have persuaded them to stay away from us, under threat of my going to the police and reporting what they did.”

“Why can't we just report them and have done with it?”

“Because I think it might be in our best interests not to antagonise them. They're the sort of people who are likely to go off half-cocked, and come after us in revenge if we bring the police into this.”

“I get the impression you're being rather evasive. Is there something you're not telling me?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course. I wouldn't have asked for your help if I didn't trust you.”

“Good. Then bear with me for a while. I think I may have found a way forward, but I need to act cautiously so I don't mess the whole thing up. And I don't want to end up not being able to answer the question you want answered the most.”

“You will be careful, won't you.”

“Of course. Don't say anything to your parents. I don't want to build up their hopes, then not be able to deliver the goods.”

“OK.”

“Look. I'll see you tomorrow if you like. How about The Crown again, for lunch?”

“Lovely. One o'clock?”

“Yes. I'll see you then. Bye, Joyce.”

I leaned back in my one comfortable chair and considered what I had so far.

The link between Essex and London; a brother trying to protect his sister; a sister who changes her name; the hint of an accent I couldn't put my finger on; an unexpected will; and always Helen's death. Why? Was it murder? Is that why Ilse's brother was protecting her? Was it an accident? But how could that have happened? Was it suicide all along? But, if it was, why was someone trying to warn me off?

I hoped it wasn't suicide. That would answer the question, but cause even more heartache for the Hetherington family.

Somehow or other, the whole will / death thing must hang together. The big question was how?

It seemed clear now that Stuart and Gemma were not involved, at least I thought it did. And I had no other leads. No other motive for murder except, perhaps, the inheritance.

The answer must lie with Ilse. And now I had another reason to visit her again. I also had a start to my reconstruction of Helen's last day.

When my return train pulled into my station I looked round for a member of the station staff. I had been using the station for so long that I knew most of them by their first names.

It was rare for a train to depart without someone being on the platform to signal to the driver. Although the rail company had installed mirrors through which the driver was supposed to check all doors were closed, I don't believe anyone thought the system was foolproof.

I saw Chris at the end of the platform and waited till he came back along to his office on the platform.

“Hi Chris,”

“Hello Greg,” he said. He always made it sound as if he was surprised to see me.

“I wonder if you could help me.”

“Try me.”

“Can you remember the young woman who was found dead near here a few weeks ago?”

“Yes. Terrible case. And as I recall noone knew why. Must have been suicide. It happens more often than people like to think. Especially at stations.”

“I know. Look could you have a look at this photo? It's the girl, Helen, who died that night.”

I gave him the photograph and he looked at it closely, then back at me, then back at the photograph.”

“What?” I said.

“Is this her?”

“Yes.”

“Now that's a funny thing, because I did see her, and I think it was that day.”

“Can you remember what sort of time it was?”

“It would have been late afternoon. But it was still light.”

“Is there any particular reason why you remember seeing her?”

“That's the funny thing. I happened to notice her get off the train. Well you do, don't you, when they are young and attractive?”

“And?”

“She was walking along the platform and suddenly she looked across towards the car park and started to run.”

“As if she'd seen someone, you mean?”

“Yes. It looked as if she'd seen someone she knew, and wanted to catch them before they drove off.”

“And this was afternoon. Can you be more specific about the time?”

“Well, I said it was light and so it was, but only just. So four or five, I suppose.”

“Thanks, Chris. That's very helpful.”

I took the photo back and returned it to my pocket.

“Why are you asking these questions?”

“I'm helping Helen's family work out what happened to her. It looks as if you were one of the last people to see her alive.”

“Streuth! Is that so?”

“What you've told me could be very useful. Thanks.”

I left him standing on the platform, deep in thought.

Monks Colne was only a five minute drive from the station, so I drove straight there.

Ilse opened the door in the same cautious way.

“Oh. It's you.”

“Yes. Can I come in?”

“I suppose so.” Not the most welcoming of invitations.

I could see no point in beating about the bush.

“I met your brother,” I said when I was facing her in the hall.

“Oh,” she said again.

There was no question in her voice, I noticed. As if it had been inevitable.

“Can we talk?”

“What about?”

“I think you know.”

She was looking at me closely, a mixture of fear and confusion in her expression.

“I haven't done anything.”

“Then you have nothing to fear from me. But your brother seems to think you need protecting.”

“What's he done now? Something stupid, no doubt.”

“Can we sit down and talk about this?”

“I suppose I shall have to, eventually. You'd better come in here.”

She indicated a room at the front of the house. It was sparsely furnished with an elderly three piece suite in a dark green chintz, which seemed to match the era of the kitchen.

“I'll make some tea,” she said, and left me.

There was a little more sense of life in the living room, with pictures on the walls, various ornaments on the mantlepiece and a colourful rug in front of the fireplace. I wondered why there was no fire lit on such a cold day. Perhaps Ilse spent all her time in the kitchen. As she had inherited so much money, she certainly wouldn't be hard up. Another question to consider. Perhaps the money hadn't come through to her yet.