Prey to All (26 page)

A slight cough made them all look towards the door. Margaret Crackenfield stood there, with a light mackintosh over the black dress. A small suitcase stood on the floor beside her.

‘Margaret, have you gone mad? Our guests!’

‘I asked them to go. As soon as I realised what these officers had come for, it seemed best. We don’t want a horrible scene.’ She smiled first at Caroline, then at Femur. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Margaret!’

‘Don’t, my dear. Let’s have some dignity.’

‘They have no reason to question me, Margaret. And so there is not the slightest need for this magnificent, but absurd, gesture. Take off your coat.’

‘It’s no gesture, John.’ She sounded very tired. ‘I did it. Or rather, I had it done.’

The three of them stared at her.

‘It seemed suddenly impossible that that man should live while my son was dead.’

‘Margaret.’

‘Mrs Crackenfield,’ Femur said. She turned her head to smile sweetly at him again. ‘Mrs Crackenfield, I must caution you that you do not have to say …’

‘Yes. I know all that,’ she said, long before he had finished.

‘That’s quite all right, Chief Inspector. But shall we go? I am
not sure quite how much more John can take.’

‘But why? How?’ Her husband’s big hand squeezed around the polished bowl of the pipe and he was breathing fast and hard. But there were no other signs of emotion.

‘Oh,’ Mrs Crackenfield said almost casually, ‘I thought Hen’s dealer would probably know someone who could shoot Malcolm for me. And it wasn’t that expensive. I was surprised. I had thought I might have to sell my pearls.’ Her hand stroked them. ‘But in fact it didn’t cost much more than a month of poor Hen’s smack.’

‘Margaret. You’re not telling me that you—’

‘Bought his drugs? Oh, yes, my darling. He couldn’t afford them on benefit, and he had to have them. Methadone never worked for him. He couldn’t get it right or something. And it was better that he was happy and addicted and safe, instead of burgling and going to prison again. You know what happened to him there.’

‘Margaret …’

‘His dealer was trustworthy. Quite a nice boy. And I knew the smack would be clean this way, not cut with something lethal. It was better, my darling. It really was.’

She left the suitcase where it was and crossed the short distance to his chair. There she took his head between her hands and kissed his domed, sweating forehead.

‘I think if the baby had turned out to be ours, it might have been different. There would have been something to live for, to stay out of prison for. But he wasn’t, and so we have nothing left of Hen. Georgina is safe and happy. And you’ll be all right. You don’t need me. And I could not go on living in the knowledge that Malcolm was swaggering around these streets and writing articles in
The Times
about the evils of drugs and drug dealers. And “everyone who cares about real justice”. I could not bear it. He had no right to live, you see.’

She turned to smile at Caroline again. There were tears in
her eyes, but her voice was remarkably steady. ‘I think we ought to go now, Sergeant Lyalt,’ she said, ‘before things are said that shouldn’t be said. Will you help me?’

‘Yes. I’ll help you. Come along, Mrs Crackenfield.’

Caroline took her arm and felt her shake. Together they walked out of the room, Caroline picking up the suitcase as they passed.

‘And so, Trish,’ said Femur’s voice in her ear, ‘I thought it only fair to let you know that we have a confession for the Chaze killing. It had nothing to do with your inquiries into the Deborah Gibbert case. So you’re safe.’

Trish hadn’t realised he’d known how frightened she had been.

‘Confessions aren’t always real,’ she said lightly, trying not to give any more away. ‘Don’t forget Deb’s mother’s.’

‘This one holds water all right, and it’s taking us a lot further than I’d even hoped.’

‘Mixed metaphors, Chief Inspector.’

‘Not necessarily. If a boat doesn’t hold water, it can’t take you anywhere. If it does, it can. Right?’

For a moment she thought he was insulted, then she heard the laughter and joined in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So, what have you got?’

‘The name of the person who put out the contract, the one who accepted it, and the go-between, who also provided a channel for the money. We’ve recovered most of that – cash, of course – and there are enough prints on the notes to make the case against all three of them as near cast-iron as your lot will ever allow.’

My lot, thought Trish. Now I am insulted. I owe you one for that, Femur.

‘And was it a dealer, as you always thought?’ she asked sweetly.

‘There was a dealer involved, yes.’

Trish wasn’t sure what he was holding back, but she knew enough about him by now to know that she wouldn’t get any more unless he chose to give it to her, so there was no point asking.

‘He’s being sweated now. With luck he’ll cough and we’ll get whole chains of supply as well as all the conspirators to murder, but the dealing details will just be bunce as far as I’m concerned.’

Trish tried to suppress her curiosity in the interests of dignity – and to pay him back for his crack about the Bar – but it was eating at her. She needed to know who had hated – or feared – Malcolm Chaze so much and why. She gritted her teeth.

‘It was good of you to let me know. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who it is or what the motive was?’

‘No.’ There was a pause before he added, ‘But you won’t have long to wait. It’ll be in the papers as soon as we go to committal. You know I can’t tell you any more just now, don’t you, Trish?’

‘It wasn’t either Kate Gibbert or her father, I take it?’

‘No. Not them.’ Trish could hear that Femur was enjoying himself, so that was the last question she’d ask.

‘Good. Well, thank you very much for letting me know. It was a kind thought.’ That was better, she decided. That really sounds as though I don’t even want to know the rest. He may not believe it, but it’s enough to save my face.

‘I’m curious, too, you know,’ he said suddenly. She smiled to herself, but said nothing. Let him ask. ‘Did you ever turn up anything definitive in the Deborah Gibbert case?’

‘You’ll see all the details on Anna Grayling’s programme. It shouldn’t be long now, because they’re starting to shoot next week.’

‘Fair’s fair, I suppose.’

‘Absolutely, Chief Inspector Femur. You have to observe your professional discretion, so do I.’

‘Who’ll be appearing on your friend’s programme – apart from you, of course?’

‘You may be a trained interrogator, but I think I’m probably proof against your probing,’ Trish said, with a laugh that was supposed to conceal her continuing anxiety for Deb and Kate.

They were no longer Trish’s responsibility, but she couldn’t stop thinking about them. She’d already taken far too much time away from her own work, and as soon as Anna’s bank had stopped threatening her and Deb’s solicitors had briefed one of the best silks to handle her appeal, Trish had handed over all her information and intuitions and picked up her own practice again. Dave would probably never forgive her for the risks she’d taken with that.

Phil Redstone’s hostility worried her less than Dave’s. Even though she’d made it clear that she wasn’t acting for Deb in any capacity and had refused to take any public part in Anna’s film, Phil was badmouthing her all over the Temple. That was a pain, but she didn’t think he carried enough weight to do her any real damage.

‘Probably,’ Femur said, sounding much more friendly than Trish would have expected. But then Ian Whatlam’s death hadn’t been one of his cases, so he had no particular axe to grind. ‘Well, good luck with the programme.’

‘Thank you. I expect we’ll meet again one of these days.’

‘I hope so – at least so long as it’s a social meeting. I don’t want you on any more of my murder cases, Ms Maguire.’

‘I’ll do my best to keep out of your way next time, Chief Inspector.’

‘You do that. Goodbye. And congratulations – if they’re in order. I rather suspect they will be. I’ve sometimes wished I had you on my team.’

He didn’t wait for a comment, and Trish was left to wonder just how much he had picked up of the supposedly secret information Anna was going to use in her film.

Trish put down the phone and turned back to her cooking. George was due any minute and there were still things to be done. She checked through what she’d achieved so far. The flowers were already arranged on the table and the candles waited to be lit. The champagne was chilling, and the oysters were ready opened on their beds of cracked ice, with tasteful trails of seaweed decorating the edges. Buying the seaweed had been more laborious and expensive than almost anything else, but the more difficult it had become, the more determined she had been to get it.

The whole dinner was a cliché, a kind of seducer’s Valentine’s Day dinner, but George shared enough of her sense of humour to appreciate it. It was important to have a joke going if she were to show him, as she wanted, that she was back – properly back and undistracted by Anna, Deb, or even Kate. George’s mask of interest and support had cracked only once more, but Trish now knew just how distracted she had been. And she wanted to make it right. Making him laugh was probably the best way of doing that.

His key grated in the lock and she turned away from the elegant table to see a huge bunch of dark-red roses advancing into the room over a pair of long, sturdy grey-flannel legs. So, their minds were still moving in the same direction. As Trish laughed, George looked round the flowers.

‘I just wanted to say sorry for being so childish,’ he said. Trish moved aside to show him
her
gesture. He put down the flowers and reached for her.

 

Later, when they’d eaten the oysters and drunk most of the champagne, he raised the subject of Anna’s film himself.

‘In fact,’ Trish said, reaching for the bottle, ‘I’m not going
to have anything to do with it.’

The sudden anxiety in his eyes made her feel maternal.

‘Not because I don’t think you could cope,’ she said, grinning at him, ‘but because I’ve got too much work, and I don’t want to muddy my professional reputation with this kind of thing. I’ve given Anna everything I’ve found out, so it’s her job now. And it’s one she’s very good at.’

‘Do you know who she’s got to appear?’

‘She’s done fantastically well. The appalling Dr Foscutt has agreed to speak on camera, admitting that he had no idea of the interaction of grapefruit juice and terfenadine at the time, which …’

‘Which is fair, isn’t it? I mean, not many people knew then.’

‘Right. But what wasn’t fair was ignoring the information when it did come to light.’

‘That isn’t a crime, though.’

Trish wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe not. But I think he was grossly negligent, both in his treatment of the old man and the way he behaved to Deb. If we could only have proved that he did at some stage give Ian Whatlam astemizole we might be able to get him charged with perjury, but I can’t see it happening now.’

‘So he’ll get away scot-free?’

Satisfaction made Trish’s finger ends tingle as she thought of her most recent conversation with Adam. He might once have believed his wife guilty, but he was making up for it now.

‘Not completely. Deb’s husband has made an official complaint to the General Medical Council. It may not stick and the frightful Foscutt probably won’t come before the disciplinary committee until after Deb’s appeal’s been heard, but it does mean that he’ll experience some titchy part of the misery he visited on her and her family.’

‘Revenge?’ George said lightly.

‘Oh, yes. I may have learned to control my vehemence,’ Trish said, raising her glass in a toast, ‘but I haven’t lost one scruple of my rage. I want him punished, and if making him live in anxiety about his professional future is the only way, that’ll do. His mistakes caused appalling misery and I don’t think he’d have made them if he hadn’t let himself hate Deb. If there hadn’t been any malice in what he did, I wouldn’t be so angry. But I think there was, and so I think he ought to pay.’

George was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t read. She hoped he wasn’t preparing a little lecture about the illegitimacy of vengeance.

‘What?’

A slow smile revealed the man she’d always known he was, even when he retreated behind one of his disapproving masks.

‘Don’t go soft on me, Trish,’ he said seriously. ‘I know your rage scares me sometimes, but it’s part of you. I can cope with it. And I couldn’t cope with knowing I’d made you pretend to be less than you are. OK?’

She let the reassurance spread its warmth up and down her spine, freeing muscles and feelings that she hadn’t even known were constricted.

‘OK, George.’

For the moment there was peace. Millie and her friend Steph had been persuaded to play up in her room, well away from Marcus’s sarcastic tongue. Deb had given him the new ointment for his hands and it seemed to be helping. The awful rash had first appeared in the week after her release, and it had got worse over the two years since then. Everyone had told her that her return was the miracle her whole family had been praying for. Marcus’s hands told the true story.

He was sitting at the dining table, opposite Louis, quietly doing his homework. Deb and Adam were sharing the sofa and the newspaper, which neither of them had had time to read that morning. Adam reached out a hand.

Deb put down the foreign news and took it, trying to feel what she knew he wanted to give her.

The old gas fire in front of her was sputtering. It only just gave out enough heat, and it made the small untidy room stuffy. She glanced at her watch.

Adam must have seen the movement, because he let go of her hand, carefully smiling at her before he went back to the sports pages. He was a good man. She knew he’d not found it easy to have her back. Life was better now than it had been just after her release, but there were still times when they didn’t know what to say to each other, or how to be easy together. Sometimes when she saw him bracing himself against the irritable outburst he knew she was about to
produce, she hated herself for making his life so hard. At other times she hated him for not understanding how difficult it was to come back from where she’d been.

Occasionally, when the children were all out or sleeping over with friends, they tried to make love, but it was hard. Maybe they expected too much, or maybe they just didn’t trust each other enough yet. Still, they were beginning to be able to achieve these odd casual caresses, a light brushing against each other in the kitchen, even a kiss sometimes.

Deb smiled, almost loving him, just as the phone began to ring. Marcus flung down his pen, shouting, ‘How am I supposed to get anything done in this place? It’s like Piccadilly Circus. If you two had the slightest interest in my future you’d arrange a quiet room where I could work in peace. Or let me go and live with Aunt Cordelia as she wants me to.’

He’s only eleven, thought Deb. What will he be like in five years’ time? And why can’t Cordelia leave us alone and stop making my life so bloody hard? Hasn’t she seen me punished enough yet?

Deb caught sight of Louis’s scared face and tried to smile. The phone was still ringing. She hoped it wasn’t Cordelia at the other end, pretending to try to make peace so that she could have another opportunity to grind Deb’s face in the mud. On the other hand, it might be Kate. Deb reached for the phone, hearing Adam say firmly, ‘You’re down here with the rest of us, Marcus, because you made Millie cry by sneering at her game with Steph. If you’d treated them properly, they’d be down here, and you would be upstairs in your room out of earshot. Until you can learn to be kinder, Marcus, you’ll find yourself having this kind of trouble all the time.’

‘That’s stupid.’

Deb tried to concentrate on the love and patience in Adam’s voice instead of the contempt in Marcus’s. She knew
the raw skin on his hands was hurting him. She knew he couldn’t help it. She glanced over her shoulder as she left the room with the phone clamped to her ear. Marcus’s face was withered and withering with contempt.

‘Mum?’ called a bright voice down the phone. ‘It’s me, Kate.’

‘How lovely, darling! How are you?’

‘Fantastic. Great. And you?’

‘Things are going well.’ Deb longed to pour out all her difficulties and miseries, but that wasn’t fair. There was nothing Kate could do about any of them, and she shouldn’t have her university years spoiled with worrying over her mother’s problems. ‘What’s the news?’

‘They are letting me switch to law next year.’

‘Oh.’ Deb tried to forget how much she hated lawyers. She summoned up all her memories of pleasure to colour her voice: ‘That’s really exciting, Kate. I’m so pleased.’

‘Me too. It should make it easier for me to read for the Bar. Did I tell you how great Trish Maguire was last week?’

‘Yes, you told me.’

‘She showed me all round the Temple and took me to court with her and then out to supper. She thinks I’d make a really good barrister, and when I’ve got all my exams, if I’m still keen, she’ll talk to the head of chambers about me. She can’t guarantee that they’ll give me pupillage, of course, but she—’

‘Whoa, whoa, Kate. Hold on a moment. I thought you were thinking about being a solicitor. It’s dreadfully expensive being—’

‘At the Bar. I know. Trish went into it all with me. You can’t get a grant and it’s two years before you’re even ready for pupillage. You hardly earn anything as a pupil and are unlikely to get up to a proper living wage for several years after that, and you have all sorts of expenses. I know. But it’s
what I want, more than anything in the world. Trish says she’s sure I can do it.’

Damn Trish Maguire, thought Deb ungratefully. Damn her.

Without Trish, she knew she’d still be behind her door in the prison. But she could have done without this.

‘We’ll do our very best, Kate, but we may not be able to afford it. There are the other three to think of, too.’

‘I know that, Mum.’ Kate’s voice was fat with confident happiness.

Deb could hardly bear to think of all the things that might drain it out of her. Life’s emotional liposuction, she thought.

‘And I’m not expecting you to pay.’

‘It’s not likely that you—’

‘Mum, wait a moment and listen.’

‘You deserve to have whatever you want, Kate, and I long to give it to you. But we may not be able to afford it.’

‘But that’s why I’m ringing.’

Deb stared at the photograph of Kate hanging on the wall ahead of her. She hadn’t heard Kate sound as excited as that since she was a child young enough to be thrilled by birthday-cake candles. She didn’t think she could bear to be responsible for quenching that thrill.

‘I’ve had a letter from Laura Chaze’s solicitors. You know, my … my father’s wife.’

‘Yes. I know who she is. What did the lawyers want?’

‘To tell me that my father’s will has finally been proved. It was all terribly complicated, apparently, partly for tax reasons but also because he wrote a codicil just after he met me that first time, and because of the way he’d worded it, it meant he’d set up a trust. They’ve been trying to work out how to deal with it ever since.’

‘A trust?’ Deb didn’t realise she was frowning until the pain of her tight skin reached her brain. ‘Did he leave you something?’

‘Sort of, but in the codicil he left instructions that if anything happened to him his widow was to pay for whatever professional training I needed to follow the career of my choice.’

‘How very kind of him.’ Deb felt as though she was speaking round a tennis ball stuck in her throat. ‘But it may not be—’

‘No. Listen, Mum. This is important. Legally she’s got to fund me through whatever post-graduate qualification I want to get. The lawyers even say that my father specified … Hang on, here it is. “Medicine or law or accountancy – whatever she chooses. I want her to have a proper profession and enough money to fund a decent life while she qualifies.”’

‘How generous.’ Deb wished she could feel pleased. Through the open door she could see the chaotic living room, and the back of Adam’s head. His dandruff had got very bad while she was in prison and it had dusted his shoulders with gritty white particles. Marcus was still ranting from the homework table and now Louis was sniffing. From where she stood, at the foot of the stairs, she could hear every word of Millie’s game of going to prison. Deb knew she should be glad that Kate was getting out of all this. She
was
glad.

‘And Trish has said that she’ll introduce me to everyone in her chambers between now and then and show me how to make myself acceptable to them all. Isn’t that great?’

Deb felt warmth rushing through her whole mind and body, washing out the resentment that it should be Malcolm’s money that gave Kate what she wanted, that once again she was going to be left behind.

‘Yes, my darling,’ she said. ‘It’s great. But you don’t need anything like that to prove that you’re acceptable. Anyone would accept you as you are.’

‘That’s sweet, Mum, but there’s a hell of a lot I’ve got to learn. I must go now. Love to the others. ’Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Kate,’ she said and, still holding the phone, went back.

‘Can’t you shut the door?’ said Marcus bitterly. ‘There’s a frightful draught.’

‘Hush,’ said Adam, pointing to the television in the corner. The six o‘clock news was on and a familiar figure was posturing on the steps of some grand building. The newscaster’s voice said, ‘Dr Archibald Foscutt appeared today in front of the disciplinary committee of the General Medical Council. He was cleared of all charges of gross professional negligence in connection with the death of Ian Whatlam.’

There was a short pause, a rustle of papers in Archie Foscutt’s hands, a dry cough and then an obviously prepared statement: ‘While I have every sympathy for the sufferings of Deborah Gibbert during her dreadful ordeal, I could not have prevented it. At the time I prescribed the antihistamine terfenadine for her father, there was no generally accepted knowledge of its interaction with grapefruit juice. My failure to warn him of this was therefore not negligent. I have always served my patients to the best of my ability. I am glad that has now been recognised. These last few years have been extremely difficult for my wife and myself. Thank you.’

Ignoring the questions of the journalists and rubberneckers, Dr Foscutt took his wife’s arm and led her to a waiting car. It looked a great deal more luxurious than any car he’d driven in Norfolk. Deb wondered who was financing him. She also wondered whether only she and Anna Grayling still believed that he had to have been the source of the astemizole that was found in her father’s body at autopsy. There was no one else who could have provided it. But Deb couldn’t do anything about that. It was the kind of argument that had been used to convict her and she wasn’t going to do the same to anyone else, even Foscutt.

‘Will you shut that bloody door?’ shouted Marcus, picking at the shredding, painful skin of his fingers. ‘And turn off the TV. I can’t concentrate.’

Adam hit the remote control to silence the television and looked at Deb. Her eyes were like stones in the white, dead face. Then Marcus said something else and her eyes changed. She looked dangerous. Without thinking, Adam took three quick strides to stand between her and his son.

He moved back almost at once. But she had seen and understood. The damage was done. All his careful, patient, painful work on his own fears and on hers counted for nothing. He had thrown away the only chance they had. She knew now and for ever that he thought she was guilty. He wished he was dead.