So he sat there at his table, pretending to be going through once again the reports of the day before and wondering what on earth he was to do. Conor a killer. It was impossible to believe. But what to make of his attitude in the car just now?
If the boy hadn’t been at Professor Unwala’s, what on earth had he been doing down in Sandymount? He had been there. He had admitted unequivocally that he had, before clamming up in that fashion. So surely, absurdly mysterious as that, he must have something to hide. And, with a murder committed in the very place he said he had been in, what was more obvious than that he had—
He stopped.
What was yet more obvious than that Conor had committed the murder? Well, perhaps it was as obvious that someone known to Conor was the killer. Or even that Conor feared someone he had met in Sandymount was that killer. Someone who perhaps had learnt from him that Professor Unwala might know where the Hampton Hoard was buried.
But who would that be? Who might Conor have encountered in Sandymount last summer? In those happy days, just before the break-up with Vicky, when he had come back from the dunes evening after evening, exhausted, hungry and ever more sunburnt, to wolf down as much supper as Vicky could cook. And had talked and talked. But not, surely, about anyone he had met. Or not by name. It had all really been about his finds, the coins from thirty or forty years ago and one or two from further back, a Victorian ring, and, once, a medallion with the motto Drunkenness Expels Reason. They had laughed over that, all three of them, and over the less exotic objects his machine had signalled, bottle tops and silver foil. Last summer when there were the three of them together.
And by then was Vicky already going with sports-mad Mike?
Yes, Conor could well have become friendly with fellow enthusiasts down there, however little he had mentioned any actual names. And if it was one of these friends he had talked to after leaving school on Monday, might he not feel obliged to say nothing about them? It was to his credit, in a way. Loyalty.
The thing now was to establish whether he had parted company from this friend, whoever he was, and been safely back home - home, that word for Mike and Vicky’s cottage again - well before Mrs Ahmed heard that shout You black bastard.
How to find out? Easy. Ask my wife. My soon-to-be-ex-wife. Conor’s mother.
A sudden shadow loomed over him.
‘Well, Mr Benholme, have you come to any conclusions from your deep study of that report?’
It was the Gill, back from his visit to Mr Jones, standing just behind him looking down sharp-eyed at the report he had not actually been reading. He looked at it himself now.
Oh God, that old original report on Mr Jones. Embarrassment could get no worse.
‘Well, no, sir - that is, yes. Yes, a possible lead has occurred to me.’
An inspiration. A get-out.
No need at this moment to tell the Gill what he had come to believe about Conor. Almost to believe. When he was more sure of the facts it would be another matter. If, say, he had found Conor had not got back to the cottage till well after six on Monday … But that did not bear thinking about.
For now he could simply repeat to the Gill the first thought that had come to him at yesterday’s final briefing when March had made her point about ‘the black coat’. If he was to say the lurker in the fog might have been a boy from Harrison Academy, the Gill could either laugh the notion to scorn or take him up on it. If the Gill shot down the whole idea, perhaps that would justify protecting Conor, especially if he was only protecting a friend. On the other hand, if the Gill agreed with the idea, he could suggest he should make inquiries himself. Former Harrison boy, knowing the set-up there.
And then, instead, I’ll go to see Vicky. To find out, yes or no, whether Conor did get back to the cottage by six o’clock on Monday.
Chapter Eight
The Gill, lips pursed thoughtfully under little foxy moustache, pronounced the Harrison pupil line just worth following up. Out at the cottage he found Vicky, wearing an apron new to him, a stupid red plastic affair with SLAVE WOMAN printed on it in big black letters. At once she said sharply she was busy. If he had anything to say he could come into the kitchen.
Except for that apron, he thought with a jet of emotion half anger, half regret, she looks just the way she used to, preparing meals in our own kitchen. Still very pretty at - what is it? - thirty-eight. Hair in the ponytail she’s had it in for years. Pale narrow face coming down to that pointed chin, ever-alert blue eyes under their blonde eyebrows, wide mouth as always a slash of scarlet lipstick.
He felt a momentary flicker of desire. Which she instantly extinguished.
‘I might as well tell you straight away,’ she said, taking up a knife and forcefully slicing a strip of white fat off the meat on the chopping board in front of her, ‘if you’ve come here to moan about divorce you’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘No. No, it’s not that at all.’
He paused, uncertain how to embark on telling her. Whether he could tell her at all.
‘Well, what is it then, for heaven’s sake? Can’t you ever make up your mind about anything?’
I wish to God I could’ve already made up my mind about Conor. Can he really have tried to make Professor Unwala say where his wife had located the Hampton Hoard? Done that appalling thing? Or is he just loyally protecting someone he thinks may have killed the old man?
And bloody Vicky, why does she always want everything served up to her instantly?
But she does. Always has. Part of her attraction. Or was when we first met. Decisive Vicky. Her certainties. Something fixed among the ever-changing ways of seeing why people do what they do. And I owe something to that certainty of hers. Without her unquestioning push I doubt if I’d ever have made DCI.
‘Well?’
‘Yes. Well, it’s this. It’s about Conor.’
‘Conor? Are you attempting to claim some rights in him? I thought we’d agreed it was better for him to be with me.’
Agreed? Hardly. You said it, and I thought you were probably right and I let him go. And, damn it, once again you’re jumping in, mind made up, and getting it all wrong.
‘No. No, it’s not a question of where Conor’s living.’ It’s a question of: has he committed a murder?
But how can I say that?
‘For Christ’s sake, Phil, can’t you come out with it, whatever it is? God, how your dithering used to get on my nerves.’
Not once upon a time it didn’t. I can remember. Phil, Phil, what I love about you is the way you always, always think before you go judging anybody. And that wasn’t dithering.
But, all right, if you want it crudely here it is.
‘Listen, I’m worried to death about Conor. You know we’ve had a murder? Down in Sandymount?’
‘For God’s sake, why do you always think I know nothing? I do listen to the news, you know. I’m not a complete moron. It was some scientist from the year dot. Nobel Prize or something. Right?’
Jumping in again. But better clear this out of the way.
‘Yes. yes, that’s it, Professor Edul Unwala.’
‘Well, what the hell has that got to do with Conor? Jesus, Phil, what’s got into you today? You’re worse than ever.’
He felt a flare of temper. Quelled it.
‘Look, Vicky,’ he said, forcing himself to sound reasonable. ‘This is serious. It may be a very serious matter indeed. Do you know where Conor was on Monday evening?’
She shot him a look mingling anger and suspicion.
‘What’s all this about? You know where Conor would have been on Monday. This is term time, isn’t it? We’ve agreed that this is the year he’s got to begin getting down to serious work. He won’t get to university if you go on indulging him. Him and his stupid treasure hunting.’
With an effort he ignored that.
‘You’re saying Conor was here?’ he asked. ‘Here doing his homework?’
A tiny shoot of hope sprang up.
‘Why s
houldn’t he have been here?’
Wait. No.
No, this is a typical Vicky ploy when she’s in the wrong. The answer that can be taken two ways. And which almost always means it should be taken the worse way. She just can’t help doing it. Same all our married life. God, even before we were married, though I was too much in love then to see it for what it was. But there it is, Vicky’s way.
But this time I’ve got to straighten her out. I owe it to Conor.
‘Listen, I’ve got to know the truth about this. It’s important. Was Conor here all the time from when he got back from Harrison till when he went to bed? Yes or no?’
‘What the hell is this? Listen, Phil Benholme, you may be a bloody detective, but that doesn’t give you the right to go treating your wife as if she’s a suspect down at that nick of yours.’
Back to that. To me being a detective. To the hard time I’m supposed to have given her because of that. Supposed? No, I did give her a hard time. Of course I did. I had to. And I know how she must have felt.
But— But that was then. This is now. Conor. And I’ve got to know. Not for my sake. For his.
He shook lingering doubts away.
‘Vicky, I’m sorry. But I have got to have a straightforward answer. Did Conor come directly back here after school on Monday?’
‘Sorry. You’re sorry. Once again. If you only bloody knew how that attitude infuriates me. Christ, do you know, I saw you last week walking through the Town Hall gardens, and you stepped off the path because there were some pigeons pecking at breadcrumbs there. Pigeons. You stepped aside for some bloody pigeons.’
Did I? I probably did. Well, why not? They were happily eating. No skin off my nose to step aside.
‘Never mind about me and pigeons. This is Conor I’m talking about. Your son. Listen, for God’s sake. What you say may affect the whole of his life.’
And now he had got through to her.
He saw the sudden look of dismay, or something worse, on her face. And at last she produced a proper answer to his question.
‘Well, yes, I suppose Conor wasn’t back by half past four that day. Monday. No, he wasn’t. Definitely. I remember.’
‘So when did he get back? Exactly? Try to be sure.’
She actually stopped and thought.
Not like my Vicky. My Vicky of old. No longer my Vicky.
‘Phil, I can’t say when it was exactly. Why have you got to know? What is this?’
His turn now to think. To think what words to use to tell Conor’s mother her son was possibly a murderer.
‘Look, love, a terrible thing. At least I think it is. I think it may be.’
‘What is it? Phil, what?’
The anxiety shrill in her voice.
‘Listen, I was saying, about the murder. In Sandymount.’
‘For God’s sake—’
She came to a flat halt.
‘Phil, you’re not saying Conor had anything to do with that? You can’t be. You’re trying to tell me that Conor, Conor, was involved in some sordid— Are you telling me Conor killed that old man, the Nobel whatsit?’
‘Yes. Or, well, no. Oh God, I don’t know. But there’s evidence. Good evidence. Evidence that with anyone else would have me, as a detective, wanting to pull them in for questioning. At the very least.’
‘My God, Phil, what’s got into you? It’s police work, that’s what it is. It’s being a damn detective. Suspicion. Suspecting everybody. You’re going mad, do you know that?’
No, I don’t. I’m not going mad, or anything like it. This is just Vicky kicking against the pricks, in any way she knows how. Christ, I can understand how she feels, hearing what I’ve just told her. What did I feel like myself when the thought first came into my head? But it’s not just some wild fantasy. There’s too much about it that’s solid fact. Conor’s evasiveness. His anxiety to know the details when I first mentioned the murder to him. His admitting he lied. His refusal to tell me anything more. There’s even the size of his bloody shoes.
He took a deep breath.
The thing is not to get riled with Vicky. To remember to try and understand what her feelings must be. But, somehow, to get out of her the accurate facts about Conor on Monday evening.
‘Listen, darling—’
‘I am not your bloody darling, Phil Benholme. If I ever was, you’ve lost all right to call me that. You drove me out. Understanding me. Always claiming to know what I was thinking. Tolerating me. Well, you’ve fucking understood me to death. So shut up. Shut up, and bloody go.’
‘No. You know I can’t go. Not till you’ve told me, calmly and as accurately as you can, what time it was that Conor got back here on Monday.’
And again it seemed he had suddenly pierced the cloud of fear and hatred between them.
‘What time he got back?’ she answered, all the edgy hysteria gone from her voice. ‘Let me see. It must have been about six …’
His heart leapt up. Six. Mrs Ahmed certain she had heard the You black bastard yell at almost exactly six. So if Conor was here, three miles, no, four from Percival Road, then it couldn’t have been him who brought that ancient cricket bat savagely down.
‘About six? How near either side? How do you know exactly what time it was?’
‘Christ, Phil, stop bullying. You’re not in one of your interview rooms now. Just let me think.’
Strange reversal. Vicky wanting time to think. Impulsive Vicky. But let her have every bit as long as she wants. If she comes up with some good reason for knowing Conor was here at six on Monday or soon enough after, then the whole world will look different. For both of us.
‘Take your time, take your time.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know now. It depends on when Mike came back home from work. He generally gets in about six. And did he on Monday…? Let me think.’
He suppressed the feelings the word home in connection with Vicky and Mike had once more sent flaring up.
If bloody Mike coming home at six proves beyond doubt that Conor was here shortly after, then I’ll forgive him everything. Forgive both of them everything. After all, Vicky did have cause to feel that I wasn’t the husband she was entitled to.
‘Yes. Yes, Mike was here. And I remember he said something about his boss, that stupid Mr Phillips, wanting him to stay on and how he’d said “Up yours” to him. So, yes, he was here just before six.’
‘And Conor? When did he come in? Before Mike or after?’
She thought again.
‘Well, he definitely came in after Mike. I remember Mike said something to him about being late, and his homework, and Conor lost his temper and shouted at him that it was none of his business whether he did his homework or not.’
For a moment he was deflected. Conor resenting his substitute father? Hankering for his real one?
But then another thought, an uglier one. Conor losing his temper. Had that been the second time within perhaps an hour that he had lost his temper? Had he lost it more completely, utterly, down in that house in Percival Road? Had the blanking-out rage that had made him bring that bat down on Professor Unwala, half-evaporated, spewed up again when Mike had rebuked him?
The time? It all depends on the exact time Conor had got here, to this house. How long would it take him to come from Percival Road to Frogs Lane? No direct bus, and he’d have had no transport of his own. So he would have had to have walked. Or run? If he’d just killed Professor Unwala, had tried to conceal the crime by moving that bookcase, had then rushed out into the garden, had vomited in horror at what he had done - yes, that fitted Conor - and if he had then climbed over that fence leaving the footmark and had stuffed the bat under the bush by the throughway, how long would all that take before he could get to the house here? Four miles away, probably nearer four and a half if he had had to start in Seabray Way. So how long? Running, say? Twenty-five minutes? He couldn’t have done it in much less.
‘OK,’ he said cautiously. ‘Mike, you say, got in about six. Was it a little befor
e or a little after? And how much later than him was Conor?’
‘You’re crowding me again, Phil.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But this is important. Vital.’
He left her to think.
At least she didn’t round on me for once again saying sorry. Give her credit for that. But can’t she make up her mind? Ten minutes after Mike? Twenty even, if Mike got here a bit before six? Everything would be all right then. But just when had Mike got here?
A sudden thought. When she said she knew about the murder she’d claimed she kept up with the news. Watched it on TV. So had she been watching ITV at twenty to six on Monday, like Mrs Ahmed in her Pakistani-packed house? And had Mike watched with her?
‘Listen, do you watch the news in the early evening? ITV or BBC? And were you watching on Monday?’
Again she thought, biting at her scarlet lower lip.
‘I don’t know,’ she said at last with a touch of petulance. ‘Sometimes I switch on, sometimes I don’t. Mike doesn’t much care for it, unless there’s some sports result he’s interested in.’
‘But Monday? Can’t you remember?’ He was almost shouting, but couldn’t stop himself.
‘No. No, I bloody well can’t remember. If Mike was back a little before six I’d have switched off if I’d had ITV on. Or I wouldn’t have switched on for the six o’clock BBC news. You can’t have everything your own way, you know.’
‘Damn it, it’s not my way I want. It’s Conor. It’s important to know if he was here at the time of the murder down in Sandymount. We know exactly when that was.’
‘Well, listen to me, Phil Benholme. I can’t believe it really can be important to know about Conor. He’s not a murderer. So it can’t matter. However much so-called evidence you’ve got. Evidence against your own son, Christ.’
He strove for patience.
She is his mother after all. She’s bound to feel the way she does. Facts or no facts.
‘Come on, love. Just put yourself back to Monday. Where were you when Mike came in? Start from there.’
Suddenly a purely vicious gleam came into her eyes.
‘I’ll tell you where I was. Or where I was just two minutes after Mike came in. I was in the bedroom. On the bloody bed. And Mike was on top of me. There.’
The Soft Detective Page 8
