Just Desserts (11 page)

He faltered a little when they asked him if he knew of anyone who had any reason to kill Patrick Nayland. Some small, troublesome part of his reeling brain told him that this was a chance to divert suspicion from himself, to tilt the scales a little against that damned knife from all those years ago, which they had discovered and thrown into the balance against him.

But he was in no condition to pit his mind against these calm, ruthless adversaries. He confined himself to as few words as possible, to being unhelpful rather than actually trying to mislead them. And surprisingly quickly, it was all over, and they were telling him to get in touch if he thought of anything which might be helpful, and not to leave the area without giving them an address.

They went out with him into the cold of the world outside, where there was a light wind from the north beneath a deceptively blue sky. It was over, he thought, wishing them into their car and off the premises. They moved with irritating slowness, and he had to moderate his pace to theirs, so that he could pretend that there was nothing here to hide, that he was as relaxed now as they were.

They strolled past the dead embers of the fire he had lit yesterday, then stopped together, as though they were puppets operated by a single string. The Sergeant with the countryman's face stared at the ground, then stirred the ashes with the toe of his shoe, neglectful of the high shine he was impairing. He watched the white dust float away on the breeze, then sniffed the air like an inquisitive Labrador. ‘Quite recent, this, isn't it?'

‘The fire? Yesterday. I burned some old timber which had too much rot in it to be any use again. And some brambles we'd cleared from the course. And some broken chairs from the dining room in the clubhouse. And some old rags we'd used to clean the tractor and the mowers.'

His tongue was suddenly working again: he had relaxed when he had thought that the ordeal was over. He was now saying too much, as if by cataloguing the ingredients of the fire he could make it a more innocent blaze.

The two CID men stared down at the black circle with its grey remnants, and Alan had to resist a ridiculous impulse to leap forward and cover the evidence from their scrutiny. There was nothing here to see. He had checked it earlier himself. But some weird and mischievous goblin tried to convince him that the eyesight of these predators was more than human, that they would swoop upon the scorched earth and hold aloft triumphantly some incriminating thing he had thought consumed for ever by the flames.

He said stupidly, ‘It was a good day for a bonfire, yesterday. I was glad of the warmth.'

‘You were alone when you lit the fire?' This was the Superintendent, seizing on the singular pronoun as if it were the final piece in some obscure jigsaw which would send Alan into a cell. He had almost thought ‘send him to the gallows', his mind springing in fear back to the recesses of some childish nightmare.

Alan said, ‘I think I was alone when I lit it, yes.' That was stupid: they would realize that he knew perfectly well whether he was alone or not. And if they were interested in the matter, as it seemed now they surely were, they would check it out with other people. ‘I lit it first thing yesterday. Barry didn't come in until later.'

‘First thing yesterday. Only a few hours after you'd left Soutters Restaurant and the body of Mr Nayland, then.'

‘Yes. I couldn't sleep. I came in early.' He wondered how they contrived to make every question seem like an accusation, whether they did that with everyone they interviewed. He had a moment of inspiration. ‘The fire was one of the things I could do on my own, you see.'

‘I see,' said Lambert. He took a step forward and stirred the grey-black ashes, as Hook had done before him. He looked into Alan Fitch's face again, as intently as he had done for twenty minutes inside his shed. He nodded a couple of times, gave him a brief smile, and said, ‘We must be on our way.'

It was the first conventional, meaningless phrase Alan had heard from him during their meeting. He stood and watched them drive down the unpaved track and back to the main road, watched the police car until its roof disappeared between the hedges, oblivious of the keenness of the north wind.

They had come with the knowledge of his violence of years ago, and disconcerted him with that knowledge. And when he had thought they had done with him, just when he was relaxing, they had found the remnants of his fire and challenged him on that.

But they hadn't discovered anything, and they couldn't reverse the process of destruction. They could think what they liked about the fire, but it had done its work.

B
arry Hooper had only had the Ducati 620 for six weeks. It wasn't new, of course – he could never have afforded that – but it was in splendid condition. When he had finished polishing it, you would never have thought that it was three years old.

The bike was still an exciting novelty rather than a mere means of transport to Barry. He loved the sensation of the engine roaring into life between his knees, delighted each time anew in the sudden surge of power as he eased the bike on to the road and away from the kerb.

He even enjoyed getting ready to go out on it, the donning of the leathers, the careful fastening of the helmet strap beneath his chin, the slow pulling on of the big gauntlets, which seemed to make his slim hands so much more powerful than they had been without them. Two years ago, he had been riding a moped, a late developer among bikers, the centre of friendly laughter among the boys he met at nights. Now he had moved swiftly from youth into manhood. Now he was the subject of envy among his peers, not derision.

When he was riding the Ducati, it took all of his concentration. Once astride the Ducati, he could forget the dramatic events of the last few days, could thrust away for a time the apprehension which had beset him since the death of Nayland.

But it seemed that on this day he was not going to be allowed to forget. He rode carefully along the road into Gloucester, slowing obediently to thirty miles an hour as he went through the village of Highnam, where everyone knew the cameras would get you if you did not crawl along. He had almost reached the junction with the A40 when he saw the police car.

They passed each other slowly enough for him to see the occupants, a driver with a rather florid face and a tall, grave-faced man, who seemed to Barry's young eyes quite elderly, though he was probably only in his fifties.

In that moment, Barry Hooper knew as certainly as if someone had whispered the information into his ear that these men were plain-clothes detectives, driving to Camellia Park, investigating the death of Nayland. Very probably they were going up to the familiar greenkeeper's shed to interview Alan Fitch. They hadn't interviewed him yet, and though his boss had said nothing, Barry knew that he was anticipating a visit from the fuzz. He even knew that Alan Fitch was nervous about it; Barry wasn't as dim or as inexperienced as the older man thought he was.

Barry's mother had been used to say when he was a small boy that money burned a hole in his pocket, that he just couldn't wait to spend it. The phrase came back to him now, and with it came the absurd fantasy that the thing he had kept in the pocket of his jeans since the night of the murder was beginning to burn its way into the flesh beneath it. He slid his right hand for a moment from the throttle to the small bulge beneath the denim on his thigh, as if he needed reassurance that the thing was not a red-hot brand; even through the thick sausage-fingers of the gauntlets, through the black leathers which encased his limbs, he could tell that it was not so.

But he needed to be rid of it. He had known that since the night of the murder, but he had done nothing about it, his will atrophied by his fear of discovery. With the sight of those policemen on the way to Camellia Park, his resolution was confirmed. He began immediately to implement it.

The bolts which Alan Fitch had sent him to purchase could wait. He'd think of some explanation as to why it had taken him so long in due course. That wasn't his primary concern now. He must get rid of the watch.

He didn't go into Gloucester. He took the by-pass, then roared along the complex of new roads which had been built to connect with the M5. But he ignored the turnings which would have taken him away to the north towards Birmingham or south towards Bristol and the West. They were unknown lands to Barry Hooper. He wanted somewhere as far from home as possible, but somewhere where he had been before. He couldn't venture into completely unknown territory. Not with what he had in the pocket of his jeans. Not to do what he had to do to get rid of it.

He opened the throttle and roared up Birdlip Hill, exulting in the power beneath his slim frame, crouching with his head low to the handlebars, staying in the overtaking lane as he passed a stream of heavy lorries as if they were standing still, slowing in the last fifty yards to walking pace as he came to the roundabout at the top of the steep rise.

He had intended to take the turning for Cheltenham just after the roundabout, disposing of the watch at a shop there which he knew took such things. But something told him that he wanted to do this further from home, that the more miles he put between him and the place of the murder, the less likely he was to be discovered. If he went to a shop he didn't know, that would somehow give anonymity to the transaction, and anonymity was essential to secrecy.

He rode on to Burford, that delightful little Cotswold capital which was full of antique shops, which was sure to offer him the facility he needed. Yet the town, so full of tourist crowds which would absorb his presence in the summer months, was quiet on this bitter December Friday. Barry cruised quietly down its main street, feeling far too conspicuous, feeling as if the bow windows of the old shops were themselves observing him. He did not dismount, but turned swiftly at the bottom of the hill and accelerated back up the High Street and out of the town.

He needed the faceless streets of a city. He tried not to panic as he got stuck for three miles behind the back of a huge van on the narrowest section of the A40. Alan Fitch was going to wonder where on earth he had got to, was going to demand an explanation for his absence. He would cross that bridge when he came to it: he had problems enough to contend with before then.

It was a relief to get to the miles of dual carriageway which ran past the old town of Witney. He accelerated up to eighty, ninety, a hundred, passing a succession of Mercs and Jaguars and BMWs, feeling the mastery which his speed and acceleration gave him. Then he eased back the throttle and moved at a steady eighty; it would never do to be stopped for speeding, with the watch in his pocket.

It took him longer than he had thought to find the place he wanted in Oxford, because of the one-way system. But he found a spot to park his bike at the end of the street. He looked briefly into the small window of the shop. It was full of rings and jewellery and, reassuringly, had two trays of timepieces, old and new. He marched quickly through the door, before he could lose his nerve.

It was dark within the shop, as he had expected, and he blinked to adjust his eyes to the dimness after the brightness of the street outside. What he had not expected was to be confronted by a young woman. He had somehow expected an aged figure, full of knowledge, bent with age, shocked by nothing, and not asking him too many questions.

‘What can I do for you?' Above the small, professional smile, her face was bland, deliberately impassive. This was obviously the greeting she offered everyone who entered the shop.

‘I've a watch I want to sell. A good one.' He fumbled in the pocket of jeans which seemed suddenly too tight, had to set down his helmet and his gauntlets awkwardly on the floor to give himself the use of both hands.

‘We might be interested.'

Barry glanced automatically towards the three brass balls in their triangle above the door on the street, but they were now invisible behind him. He had thought these places bought anything and everything, hadn't anticipated a lukewarm female like this to bargain with. He said as confidently as he could, ‘You'll want to buy this, when you see it. It's a good one.'

He produced the watch at last, set it down on the tray she pushed towards him across the mahogany counter. It looked good, gleaming softly yellow and expensive in the dim yellow light.

She stared down at it, her expression still impassive. ‘It's a Rolex.'

Barry thought she sounded impressed, despite herself. That gave him a little more assurance, and he said boldly, ‘Didn't I tell you it was a good one?'

‘Is it genuine?'

Snotty cow. ‘Yes, of course it is.'

‘There are a lot of fakes about, you see. There always are, when the genuine article is as costly as a Rolex.' She did not look at him. Instead, she turned the watch over, reached to her right, produced a powerful overhead light and an eyeglass. She studied both the front and back of the watch intently through the eyeglass. Then she put the eyeglass down and finally looked into his face. Reluctantly, to his mind, she said, ‘This appears to be the genuine article.'

‘I told you it was.'

She smiled a mirthless smile. ‘In this business, you have to be certain. I'm sure you'll understand that we can't just take anyone's word, however genuine he might appear.'

Barry could tell that these were phrases she used all the time. Yet he thought he caught a note of irony in the way she had used them to him, thought he caught her glance straying to the helmet and goggles he had pushed behind his feet. Saucy little minx! He'd like to have her on the back of his bike, take her up to the ton, see if she still felt like putting him down with a wind like that howling up her skirt. She was older than he'd thought at first, probably nearly thirty. There were no rings on her perfectly manicured fingers, which seemed odd in a place where she was surrounded by them. He said, ‘I understand that you have to be careful. But this is a Rolex all right. What's it worth?'