Death of a Stranger (8 page)

“Washing a car won't remove a dent.''

“Hurt that badly, was she?'' For the first time Tim saw light in the eyes.

“She was hurt. Open the garage doors for us will you please, Mrs Lorimer?''

“Of course, Inspector. I'll get the key.''

Constance Lorimer didn't invite them into the house but she left the front door open, and both men stood silently surveying the gloomy hall, Tim wondering if Ted too was aware of the musty smell which made him glad to be out on the step.

When Mrs Lorimer reappeared she pulled the door to, then led them the short way along the cracked concrete path under the ground floor sunshine window to the garage.

That, too, had its original facade, now heavily distressed: black double doors with crazed glass panels in their upper halves, sliding away each side in grooves. Tim's heart leaped as he saw that the car was a small black Fiesta, then sank as he saw too that it was far from new and had had more than one encounter with other objects. It was also, as Constance Lorimer had promised, washed clean. She had backed it into the garage, and it was easy to see the front nearside mudguard and panel which would have made contact with his mother, and that the small dents and scratches it carried were much the same as those on the offside.

Tim hadn't thought he was expecting anything better, but his disappointment was painful. It was a welcome distraction to see the pick-up truck at the gate, arrived to time.

After a glance at Tim, Ted turned to Constance. “The car looks clean enough, Mrs Lorimer,'' he said. “But this is a serious situation and I'm afraid we have to give it a thorough examination. We'll hope to get it back to you tomorrow.''

“I'll hope so, too.'' Mrs Lorimer smiled at Tim. Not triumphantly, she was in control of herself now. But with a quiet confidence which had more over-the-top images bursting about his brain. Including the possibility of someone having put out the operation to contract, even in Guernsey.

S
imon Shaw arrived in the detective inspector's office on the dot of eleven. Tim was glad when the time came that he had withstood his impatience to talk to him, and had made the appointment for mid-morning rather than immediately on his arrival at the station: by the time Shaw arrived he had managed to inform those of his colleagues on duty of his unexpected presence and cut out the possibility of shocked reactions at the sight of him at his desk, or stops in corridors while amazement was expressed and he had to go through it all again. The task had been made easier by the comparatively small number of Sunday staff on duty, but with luck the word would have got round by tomorrow morning and he would be stale news.

A few hours on, a bruise was visible on Shaw's left cheekbone, spreading from under the plaster, and the back of his left hand was black although he had abandoned the sling. Tim, to his surprise, found himself sorry for the boy, and had to force himself into detachment rather than into sympathy, the opposite process to the one he had anticipated.

“Your bruises are coming out. I hope that means they're less painful this morning.''

“They're not so bad, I'll be able to do my job.'' Shaw hesitated. “I've come from the hospital. Lorna had a good night and seems quite cheerful this morning. Shoulder and leg are doing well.''

“Yes, I rang her just now and had a chat.'' He mustn't let himself feel that he and Shaw were rivals in attendance on his mother, for heaven's sake. “ But I'm glad to have first-hand evidence that she's doing well. Now— Ah!'' The coffee he had ordered to follow Shaw into his office was arriving.

“Despite what's happened since, that was a happy day yesterday,'' Shaw ventured, when each of them had broached the workmanlike brew. “I'm sorry about Scotland.''

“That's the least of it. Yes, it was a happy day. Now,'' Tim tried again, “my mother will no doubt have told you she's convinced it was Constance Lorimer driving the car last night.''

“Oh, she is.''

“And you?''

“I only know one side of the Lorimer story, but I did witness Mrs Lorimer's reaction to seeing Lorna yesterday, and it would have to be an extraordinary coincidence if she wasn't the driver.''

“Yes. My sergeant and I paid her a visit earlier this morning, and had a look at her car. It's been taken away for professional examination, but on the face of it, from what I could see among its old scars, it was clean. She told us she'd washed it yesterday and we could see it was dry, so unless someone like her crony Beth Smith chooses to let her down, we can hardly say, ‘Oh, no, you didn't, you washed it in the early hours of this morning'. Not, from what you and Mother have told me, that a clean car will let her off the hook. You both say your injuries were caused by the impact of falling rather than the impact of the car, and the doctors who saw you bear you out. Which means that washing the car could be enough to remove any evidence of my mother's contact with it. We have to hope for a piece of thread in the tread of a tyre, say. What she was wearing that night has gone to Forensics.''

“The policeman at the hospital asked me whether I'd come in contact with the car, and when I said I hadn't he didn't take anything I was wearing. But if you think—''

“No,'' Tim said, with a sigh. He turned his head a little away from the man the other side of his desk to look out of the window at the huge lime tree dominating the courtyard, a tree that since the CID had joined up with the rest of the island force at the old Town Hospital had in a curious way given him moments of detachment, enabling him to gather his forces when he had something tricky to face. The tree now was lushly beautiful in its yellow-green summer wear, but he found it just as helpful when it was an austere winter skeleton. “Simon,'' he said, turning back to Shaw, “ the possibility does just exist that you could have been the target. In view of your assignment over here.''

“It was Lorna in the road!'' The reaction was immediate, the sensation of surprise the only sensation showing.

But he had to go on. “I know that. But are you absolutely certain you weren't just in the road, too?''

“Oh, God …'' Simon ran both hands through his hair, screwing up his face. Tim didn't read his reaction as fear; he thought it came from the man's sudden realisation that he might have been inadvertently inaccurate. “I'd been stepping on and off the pavement, I suppose, looking in the gutter … But I was on it most of the time, Lorna having said that was where she expected the other half of her earring to be.''

“The car just might have intended to veer your way, then when you ran out to pull Lorna safe the driver didn't bother.''

“Seeing her as expendable in his pursuit of me.''

“If that was the scenario, then yes. But I appreciate it's much less likely than my mother being the target.'' Tim leaned across his desk, holding the anxious eyes opposite and affected-by-them in a way he was unable to explain to himself and pushed impatiently away. “ Simon, can you tell me how things have gone to date with your investigation into the Golden Rose? Are they still so far as you know unaware of you and your mission?''

“So far as I know, Tim.'' The eyes hadn't wavered.

“Can you tell me what you did on Friday?''

“Surely.'' The hesitation had been brief, and Shaw still hadn't dropped his gaze. “I spent part of the morning with the Town branch of the insurance company – you can check.'' Tim had matched the ironic smile before reminding himself with a stab of inward irritation that he still knew nothing for certain about the man and that his mother's association with him could be foolish as well as fond even if the insurance company corroborated his story. “And in the afternoon I visited the nursery. I reckoned I might pick up more of the mood of the owners by mingling with the crowd and not having to be furtive than by visiting undercover. Which I may be doing as well, of course.'' Shaw's eyes dropped to the desk, and Tim wondered if he was contemplating something outside the law: it could explain his anxiety over Tim's policeman's reaction to his profession. “And there was the gossip among the other visitors,'' Shaw went on, bringing his eyes back to Tim's face. “Sitting in the cafe I overheard quite a few opinions about the fire, and actually saw a man tap his nose and say there's no smoke without it. The place was packed, I suppose some of the crowd was there out of curiosity, there's been so much in the
Press
about the fire, and a bit about the pictures. And as the insurance company are insisting on the greenhouse being left precisely as it ended up while they investigate the claim, the punters can enjoy the thrill of seeing the burnt-out ruin for themselves. It was never open to the public, it's round the private side of the building, so at least it doesn't loom. But it's easily seen and of course people were trekking round just to have a look at it.''

“I can imagine. The Golden Rose always attracts a lot of custom, though, because it's a good nursery, even if the Charters haven't personally endeared themselves to Guernsey people.''

“They were certainly on the defensive when I saw them. I've burned my boats in one way, Tim, because when I was paying for some cards I told the woman who served me how sorry I was to hear about the fire. I knew she was the owner from the photographs I've been shown, and anyway they don't have assistants, husband and wife both appear to work flat out on their own. The wife was a bit dour, just grunted at my commiserations, but I got the impression she could have been suppressing quite a head of steam. Anxiety? Fear? The idea that she could be afraid came into my mind at the time. The husband, too. I asked him a question about roses and he was quite willing to fill me in but otherwise as unforthcoming as his wife, and I noticed stressed looks between them. There was also the boy, the twelve-year-old son on school holidays, he was moving between his parents and making the odd small sale. He didn't look dour, he didn't look anything, just blank, but my briefing told me that he's slightly withdrawn – not autistic, just a loner who doesn't interact well with other people, especially young people his own age. I noticed the father put an arm round his shoulders a couple of times as if to encourage him, and the boy just gave him a quick look and then went back to what he was doing – arranging some pots, I think.''

“Thanks. You did well. It's a pleasure to have an observant witness who knows how to put his observations into words.'' An additional pleasure, because the more Simon Shaw said, the more Tim felt inclined to believe he really was a private eye with a brief from a respected insurance company and not likely to disappear into the blue when he left the office knowing the police were about to check with the company. “A pity you're not a grey man.'' He surveyed the blond locks and handsome face, and recalled the slim height. “You won't be able to visit openly again without being remembered here and there.''

“I don't think I could get any more than I've got already if I did. Tim,'' it was Shaw's turn to lean across his side of the desk, “I wonder … as you haven't gone away … Would you feel able to visit the nursery yourself on some pretext – I don't mean as a policeman, obviously – and tell me your reactions to the Charters? It could be very helpful. Look,'' Shaw went on, as Tim hesitated, “unless they have a spy in the insurance company, or in my office, I can't see any way they could – so far, anyway – know who I am and why I visited the nursery. A couple of days ago I didn't know a soul in Guernsey, so unless someone with a grudge against me arising out of my work in England has followed me here, I don't see how it can be me the car driver was after. But you'd no doubt like to prove that for yourself, and visiting the nursery could help you.''

“And help
you
. You're asking me to work for you, aren't you?'' Tim asked the question mildly. To his further surprise he wasn't annoyed by Simon Shaw's disingenuous plea, but he wanted the man's motive spelled out.

“I'm asking for the opinion of the Guernseyman most qualified to give one. So yes, I suppose I am asking you to work for me. But investigating crime is your work anyway.''

“We've had no reason to doubt the Charters' story. There's no question of a police investigation of their fire.''

“But the insurance company aren't satisfied that their story is the truth. Tim, just an off-duty visit, a few friendly words … They know who
you
are, and if they're guilty of anything there could be a wariness, a
something
, about their reaction to you as a policeman which could be an important element in my report. Tim …''

“All right.'' Half an hour ago he would not have believed that Simon Shaw would approach him so boldly, and that he would agree to so impertinent a request. He and Shaw had both changed
vis-à-vis
one another: all the boy could fairly expect of him was suspicion and distaste, yet he had just asked him a huge favour, an action which seemed as totally out of character, so far as Tim had observed Shaw, as it was out of line. And he had agreed to grant it.

There was logic for the change on both sides, though, Tim consoled himself as he glanced at the tree: it was simply that Shaw, seeing such potentially powerful help, had overcome his natural diffidence; and that he, even though he believed it was almost certainly Constance Lorimer who had attempted to run his mother down, would still like either to put the Charters into the frame in Constance's place, or drive them out of the corner of it where they were lurking.

And there was something else, he suddenly recalled, which he could offer Shaw either as an alternative to himself or as an addition. “I've just remembered,'' he said. “Anna's visited the Charters recently in the line of business; their collie-cross bitch has just had puppies with complications.''