Quick and the Dead

by Susan Moody

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No idea at all who it could have been.’ I was still a little woozy from painkillers, and my throat was definitely unfit for purpose, but otherwise I was fine.

  My parents had gone. Edward Vine and Sam were sitting on either side of me. ‘None,’ I repeated. I looked from one to another. ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘This is the third day,’ Sam said.

  Three days! It didn’t seem possible. ‘I can’t have been that badly hurt.’

  ‘Concussion, dear,’ said Edward. ‘They wanted to keep you in for observation.’

  ‘When can I go home?’

  ‘Some time today. They’ll be in to tell you when as soon as they’ve come to a decision.’ Sam patted my hand. ‘And I’m standing by to drive you home.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ I said.

  ‘Why would anyone want to attack you?’ he said.

  ‘If it’s just your average maniac, there’s no answering that question. It could have been entirely random.’ Edward frowned. ‘But if it’s someone who specifically targeted you …’

  ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘Maybe he thinks you have information that could endanger him in some way.’

  ‘How many of those are there likely to be?’ I started to shrug, then changed my mind as my shoulders protested. ‘I don’t have any information about anything.’

  ‘Maybe he thinks you have.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t.’ I could feel my face drooping.

  ‘Maybe you should take an ad out in the paper, stating so,’ Sam said, trying to make me laugh.

  It didn’t work. I fell asleep again.

  I was allowed to leave the hospital later that afternoon. Sam agreed to take full responsibility for me. I have a feeling he implied that he was my fiancé and we lived together. As promised, he took me home, treating me with the tenderness he might have shown to a newly discovered Shakespearean Folio One. Or a first edition of Chaucer. He made us some supper. Announced firmly that he would be staying the night, had indeed sworn to both the hospital and to my parents that I would not be left alone. He made up a bed for himself on the sofa. I had insisted that I was fine, thank you, getting better by the hour, but pain is tiring, and I fell asleep before Sam had even left my room. I woke at seven the next morning, feeling more or less back to normal, apart from a few aches here and there.

  Sam said he would have to go down to Willoughby’s Books, but wouldn’t be more than an hour. He assured me that Alison was more than capable of handling things; he was simply going to pick up some paperwork and then come back. Before he left, he went round the flat, locking doors and windows. ‘Do not open the door to anyone,’ he ordered me. ‘Not even if it’s Edward. Not even if it’s your parents. No one.’

  ‘That’s a bit melodramatic,’ I protested.

  ‘Nonetheless, you must promise.’

  So I did.

  By the time he came back, I had, with some difficulty, and a lot of yelping as my bruised muscles came into play, managed to take a shower and dress myself in a flowing kaftan thing I found in the wardrobe, bought years before in Marrakesh, God knew why. It didn’t touch my body at any point except my shoulders, and by the time the painkillers supplied by the hospital had kicked in, I felt so invigorated, I could have scaled a mountain. Or at least a low hill.

  Sam found me drinking coffee at the table in my kitchen, trying to recall the slightest feature about the attack which might help to identify the man responsible. But I could not. They had warned me at the hospital I was suffering from a temporary amnesia, though almost certainly my memory would eventually return. I wasn’t all that convinced I wanted to bring it back, knowing I could be doomed to relive the incident again and again. I wondered what thoughts had raced through Helena’s mind as her killer slammed the rock against her head. A favourite painting? Ainslie Gordon? A Fu Dog? Me? I’d never know. I just hoped she’d not had time to be scared.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I woke to the ringtone of my iPhone and groped for it without opening my eyes, wincing at the stab of pain the movement caused in my shoulder. ‘What?’ I gruffed.

  ‘Wake up and listen good.’ DI Fairlight sounded unusually excited.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘We’ve got him! Or rather CID has. And before you say “Got who?”, which I know you were about to, I mean that we’ve got the guy who killed your friend Doctor Drummond.’

  ‘You have? How? Where? Above all, who? Tell me all.’ I piled the pillows against my back and sat up.

  ‘Caught him boarding a cross-Channel ferry, picked him up in Calais and brought him back to Dover. Denying it loud and clear all the way, of course.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Tried to get away several times. He’s a stroppy little sod, from what I hear.’

  ‘What put them onto him?’

  ‘As so often, a combination of good solid detective work and luck. One of the investigating officers had noticed the number of mentions there’d been of a motorbike in witness statements. One person had also said that they’d seen a machine with foreign plates. And we caught some CCTV footage of a bike fitting the description and the owner.’

  ‘And who is he, Fliss? Tell me before I explode.’

  ‘Guy called Laurence Turnbull,’ Fliss said.

  ‘I knew it.’ I punched the air. ‘But how did they connect Helena with Turnbull in the first place?’

  ‘Someone in Doctor Drummond’s village – the usual invaluable dog-walker – was able not only to place him right there, at the time Morrison must have been killed, but actually saw him exiting the Drummond residence. And Garside now likes him for both homicides.’

  I thought of Sam’s lukewarm response to my hypothesis a few nights before. This would show him! I could hear him moving about downstairs and the faint purr of the kettle. ‘But that doesn’t mean he killed her,’ I objected. ‘She was found over in Dovebrook.’

  ‘An astute WPC did some cross-checking. Helena Drummond plus Alexandra Quick plus Dovebrook plus Edred and Mary Quick plus an artist guy living in southern France, added up to connections which were followed up and led in a more or less straight line to Turnbull.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ I thought a moment. ‘Fliss … does the name Turnbull ring any bells?’

  ‘Funnily enough, it does. Why is that?’

  I explained about the two little girls Turnbull had ploughed into and killed, the third one confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Another one doomed to wear a colostomy bag until they could find a way to repair the poor child. The bastard.

  ‘Of course. I remember now. And the bugger got off with a caution, after all the work we put into the case.’

  ‘Justice being done,’ I said. ‘No question of him getting off this time, is there?’

  ‘Garside seems to think he’s got him nailed, inside out and upside down.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. The mills of God grinding.’

  I heard Sam knocking gently on the bedroom door.

  ‘Gotta go, Fliss. Thanks for keeping me in the picture.’ I pressed the Off button. ‘Come in.’

  Sam came in with two cups of tea on a tray. Gave me one. Sat on the edge of the bed while I told him the gist of Fliss’s phone call.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘Presumably he’s also the one who attacked you.’

  ‘I think so, though I don’t know what I’ve done to make him want to eliminate me.’ I remembered again the faintly acrid smell which had come off both my attacker and the intruder into my flat, and this time I recognized it. Turps! Which a man who spent his time with paints and brushes would be in contact with daily. I’d smelled it in Ainslie Gordon’s house as well. I’d pass the information on to Garside. One more nail in Turnbull’s coffin. It would mean a police search of my flat some time, in case DNA had been left behind from the break-in, but I could put up with that.

  ‘Sam,’ I said, after I’d got him up to speed. ‘Tomorrow I have t
o go to London.’

  ‘No.’ Calm but firm.

  I eased my arms, sucked up the discomfort. Flexed my shoulders. ‘I’ve got an important appointment.’

  ‘No,’ he said again.

  ‘I can’t afford to miss it, my whole future could be jeopardized.’ I tried to match his firm with my firm, but his was better.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s got to be tomorrow because she’s going back to the States very shortly.’

  ‘Are you talking about Mrs Lamont?’

  ‘Yes. She and her husband are talking about an extremely lucrative offer, Sam.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if I don’t show up, it not only looks very unprofessional, I also risk losing what could be a huge boost to my career. I simply cannot afford to miss this opportunity.’

  ‘Listen, sweetheart, you’re not going anywhere. Not yet. You’ve just spent three days in hospital after a nasty mugging. And there’s no point in jutting out your jaw and looking obstinate. Give the woman a call and explain. She’ll understand.’

  ‘Even if she would—’ I thought quickly. I raised an arm, and winced. Deliberately. Tried to rotate my head on my neck and winced again. For real, this time. ‘Oh God, perhaps you’re right. I damned well hope so, at any rate.’

  ‘What time’s the appointment tomorrow?’

  ‘Eleven thirty,’ I lied. The man was acting like a bloody Rottweiler. If he thought I’d cancelled, he’d relax, be off his guard. Might even go to the bookshop for an hour or two, leaving me on my own. At which point I would immediately head for London and hang about until three thirty, the time I’d arranged last week with Mercy. ‘I’ll call her later this morning, when you’ve gone to work. And no, I won’t let anyone in until you come back, though now they’ve got Turnbull in custody, I should be perfectly safe.’

  ‘There are a couple of things about the death of Ms Morrison still bothering me,’ Sam said. ‘One is, why would Turnbull roll up several pages of the woman’s manuscript and stick them up her … ahem? And where would he find them in the first place?’

  ‘Amy’s book was on the night-table beside Helena’s bed,’ I said. ‘And like I said yesterday, I’m quite sure that the police will find a connection between them. And sticking the pages where he did was probably just an act of spite.’

  ‘But the pages weren’t torn out of the book, were they?’

  ‘No … they were typescript. Or proofs.’

  ‘Another objection: if your theory is correct, and he had to race back into Canterbury to lie in wait for Doctor Drummond, why spend time on psychopathic little acts like that one, let alone sticking an implement through Amy’s eyes? An implement he would have had to waste time in going to find among Doctor Drummond’s tools, since I can’t believe he brought it with him.’

  I yawned again. ‘There’ll be some kind of explanation. Meanwhile, I’m going back to sleep. Those hospital meds are doing my head in.’ In actual fact, I was weaning myself off them, terrified of becoming too dependent. The medicine cabinet in my bathroom already contained more than enough OTC painkillers.

  Sam got up. Took my empty mug of tea. Leaned over and dropped a kiss on my forehead. ‘Sleep tight, Alex.’

  Some impulse urged me to pull him closer. Undo the belt of his dressing gown. Snuggle him into bed with me. I resisted it. Instead, I hunched myself down under the covers. ‘See you later. G’night.’ I produced another yawn, to add some verisimilitude.

  When I’d heard him close and lock my front door, and the sound of his car pulling away from the parking space in front of the building, I got out of bed. After a long hot bath, I did some exercises, stretching and lifting, running on the spot, crunches. It hurt, but after a while I was through the pain and into a mini workout. I felt really good. By the time Sam reappeared, three or four hours later, I was in bed again, looking wan, eyes half-closed as though I was all dosed-up.

  ‘Did you make that phone call to Mercy Lamont?’ he asked, soon as he was through the door.

  ‘Yeah. She understood. Said it wouldn’t make any difference, in terms of her and Bob offering me work.’

  ‘Good.’ He removed his jacket. ‘And how are you?’ He sat down on the edge of my bed and took hold of my hand.

  ‘Fine. Tired. But beginning to feel better, at last. The medication from the hospital really knocks you out.’

  ‘What about something to eat?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said weakly, although I was absolutely ravenous. ‘A cheese sandwich, maybe. Or some soup. Something light, anyway.’ I smiled up at him. ‘Thank you, dear Sam.’

  We followed the same routine the next morning. Sam waited until there was no chance of me getting up to London in time for an eleven thirty meeting, just in case I had been extremely economical with the truth the day before about cancelling my appointment with the Lamonts. I found his lack of trust in me very disheartening, but then, of course, it was understandable, given that I had been lying through my teeth for most of yesterday, though I hoped he hadn’t realized. Perhaps he still hadn’t.

  As soon as he left for the bookshop, I got out of bed, trying not to groan. I certainly felt stronger than yesterday and was in much less discomfort. I did some more stretching and loosening-up exercises. Took a deep breath. I needed it, to get myself into some reasonable clothes in which to conduct an important business meeting.

  I ordered a taxi to take me to the station and tumbled into the nearest carriage when the train stopped in front of me. I leaned wearily against the blanket-like upholstery of my seat and closed my eyes. And there he was again, the black figure, pounding towards me, head down, elbows working, running, running towards me over and over again … I opened my eyes with a start. I leaned back again and closed them. Was it Laurence Turnbull? Or some as-yet-unnamed bogeyman?

  We pulled into Victoria and I got out. Found another taxi which took me to Eaton Square. The doorman let me in and I took the lift up to the second floor, prepared to walk along the passage to ring at the Lamonts’ front door. But Mercy must have heard the lift because she was standing at the open door of her apartment, waiting for me.

  She air-kissed me on both cheeks, in the Continental manner. ‘Dead on time,’ she said. ‘I like that. I believe that punctuality is one of the great social arts. So many people these days seem to think it doesn’t matter if you show up early or arrive late, as though specifying a time is purely arbitrary. Come on in.’ She led me into her apartment, which already had the dispossessed air of a place about to be vacated by its owners. But the paintings were still in place. She saw me looking at them. ‘The men come in the day after tomorrow to take the pictures into storage until we come back later in the year,’ she explained.

  I tried very hard not to wince as I eased out of my coat, but she noticed anyway. ‘Are you all right, honey?’ she asked.

  ‘I had a bit of a fall the other day,’ I said. The train ride seemed to have set my bones aching again.

  ‘Oh dear. It’s good of you to come, in the circumstances.’

  ‘With you returning to the States, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to discuss your proposals,’ I said. ‘It’s so much easier to go through the nitty-gritty detail face to face than by email or phone.’

  ‘Very true. Now, come and sit down in the office. I’ll get the housekeeper to bring in some coffee – unless there’s something else you’d rather have.’

  ‘Coffee’s fine. And if you had some kind of mild painkiller …’

  ‘Sure. I’ll go and find something.’

  While I waited, I glanced around. The room was lined with wood-fronted cabinets which held, I guessed, filing cabinets, shelving, cupboards, storage space, a TV. A big partners’ desk took up about a third of the floor space, but there was still room for a sofa and two club chairs in maroon button-back leather, and a gas-fired stove designed to look as though it was a wood-burning model.

  A number of photographs hung above the cabinets. Mercy and Bob appeared in various in
carnations. Sailing, lying by a swimming pool, sitting at a table under palm trees with big umbrella-crowned drinks in front of them, hiking in the hills. Sometimes there were two kids with them, sometimes only one, sometimes there were six or seven, seated round a table or crowded together with ice cream cones in their hands and the sea behind them. And of course, numerous black-tie functions, some of which I’d seen in the magazines Sam had produced. In several of the latter, Mercy wore the gold-linked necklace. In one or two, she was being escorted by a handsome man with dark hair and eyes.

  She returned and handed me a blue pill and a glass of water. ‘It’s not prescription medicine or anything of that kind, so it’s not all that strong, but I find one of those usually sorts things out for me.’

  I swallowed the pill and gestured at the photographs. ‘Is that your family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They look like a pleasant crowd. Happy.’ But then doesn’t everybody look happy, in these kinds of photos?

  ‘They are,’ said Mercy. ‘Or were.’

  ‘Were?’

  She shrugged, her face rueful. ‘That’s the way it goes. I always urged my son to live life to the full, since the difference between death and life is never more than a hair’s breadth.’

  ‘And one of those is your son?’

  ‘Dante. Yes.’

  She nodded as a smart young woman appeared, carrying a tray. ‘Thank you, Cathy.’ She was the same housekeeper Sam and I had met last time we were here.

  ‘If there’s nothing else,’ Cathy said, ‘I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a good weekend.’

  ‘You, too.’

  Minutes later, I heard the front door of the apartment closing. ‘Cathy’s a real treasure,’ Mercy said. ‘Much too smart to be acting as our housekeeper. She’s got a university degree in law, but with two small children and a husband who’s gone off with another woman, she likes the flexibility of the job, and the fact that we pay her a retainer even though we’re not here all year round.’