Death on Account

by Margaret Yorke

  A successful raid must be carried out when a calmer cashier was on the till: Wendy Lomax, for example. She was older than the other girls and Robbie was surprised that she had stayed at the branch so long; there had been no vacancy there for promotion for some time but a capable girl like Wendy could have been offered a higher post at another branch. He had heard the other girls talking about her and some man called Terry, but Robbie did not know the full story; Terry and Wendy had gone out together for several years and then Terry had, quite recently, dropped Wendy, he believed, but there must have been more to it than that. She had become rather quiet and withdrawn. She would not panic, faced with a gun. She was self-possessed enough to ring the alarm promptly so he would have to seem fierce to make her hand the money over instantly.

  He went from the supermarket to a shop further along the street that sold stockings, and bought a pair.

  ‘What size?’ the girl wanted to know, and added, ‘Are you sure you don’t want tights?’

  But Robbie wanted stockings, stretch ones, capable of great expansion. At home that night he pulled one on over his face. His features, compressed, stared back at him from the mirror, nose pale and eyebrows flattened: weird. He could have taken some of Isabel’s old stockings from her drawer and they would not have been missed but he would touch nothing of hers that was personal. Long ago, he had bought stockings for her as gifts: not now. He had an arrangement with Gemma Gems in Harbington; before Isabel’s birthday and before Christmas, she would go to the jeweller’s shop and choose a charm for her loaded bracelet, or a different sort of bracelet – she wore several every day – earrings, or some other trinket. Robbie would then call to collect the item.

  He could not walk from the lavatory in the recreation ground to pick up his getaway car wearing a stocking mask, and he could not stop in the car to put it on. Nor could he steal a car unmasked and recognizable.

  He must find some other disguise.

  Because his usual routine was disturbed, Wilfred Hunt did not miss his shotgun for some days. Normally on a Sunday he would have looked at his guns, might even have walked over his land with one, potting at rabbits or pigeon, but this Sunday he went over to Surrey to see his new grandson and was away all day. May was staying on for a little longer, so she did not perform her regular dusting ritual in the study, where the cowman’s wife who came in to clean was allowed only to vacuum the floor.

  Grateful for the order restored to his papers by Robbie, Wilfred deposited more on his desk as they arrived and hoped Jill, his secretary, would soon return.

  He missed the gun on Wednesday.

  At first he could not believe that it had gone. He checked the cupboard, which was properly locked, and the keys were in the drawer. Then he tried to remember when he had last seen it. He had not used a gun for over a fortnight, but it must have been there then or he would have noticed. The cowman might have borrowed it, though it was most unlikely.

  ‘What, me? As if I would, Mr Hunt, without asking,’ said Ben, when asked. ‘And I don’t know where you keep the keys to your cupboard, what’s more.’

  ‘No – well, I was sure you hadn’t, Ben, but I had to ask you before I tell the police,’ said Wilfred.

  Ben thought of his son Barry, a good lad but one who had some dubious friends. Looking at his employer, he saw that the same thought was in his mind.

  ‘I’ll ask Barry, but I’m sure he never –’ Ben began.

  Barry had an air rifle and often fired slugs at pigeons and sparrows; both men knew it. The farmer had warned the boy about the responsible use of firearms and thought that his words were heeded; all the same, Barry might have become ambitious.

  ‘I won’t get on to the police until you’ve spoken to Barry,’ said Wilfred. Getting the lad into trouble for what might be just a prank could lead to serious consequences; if he had taken the gun – and Wilfred could see no other answer – it was better to deal with the matter amongst themselves.

  He tucked the problem away at the back of his mind until Ben reported, the following day, that the boy denied all knowledge of the gun’s whereabouts and that he, Ben, believed him. What was more, the boy’s mother had searched his bedroom and the hut where he kept his motorbike, with no result. Barry was eighteen and worked for a builder; he had always seemed a dependable youth but now Wilfred was certain that he must have taken the gun and hidden it. He would question Barry himself, and toughly. Only if the boy continued to deny that he was the culprit would Wilfred tell the police.

  So the gun’s loss went unreported.

  Isabel was choosing new curtains. She was absorbed by plans for the move to Windsor Crescent and all her thoughts that were not concerned with the business were directed towards it. Robbie came home to find patterns of fabric spread across chairs and pinned from the windows. She told him brusquely that she had selected a plain orange for his room: he was offered no choice.

  On Thursday, at lunch time, he went into the public lavatory in the recreation ground. There was no one else in there, and he entered one of the cubicles. It was a damp day and his feet left prints as he crossed the floor. Shoes. He had not thought about them. Would a robber’s shoes be seen in the bank? Not by a girl behind the counter, and the raid would not take place if there were any customers. However, unremarkable shoes must be worn.

  He opened his briefcase and took out a folding nylon raincoat and an old tweed cap he had not worn for years. He put them into a polythene bag and reached up to push the bag behind the high, old-fashioned cistern. It was invisible from below. He took it out again, smiling. It was rather exciting. Sauntering out of the lavatory, he wandered across the recreation ground and then circled round its perimeter on the footpath. Cars were parked all along here, and he saw three with their keys in the ignition.

  In his own personality he could mark down a likely car, then go to the lavatory and assume his disguise, which would include more than just the raincoat and cap, but he had not prepared the rest yet. Then, disguised, he would take the car, drive to the bank, in imagination conduct the raid, return the car and resume his normal appearance.

  He thought of a simpler plan.

  The disguise could be taken to the bank in the morning in a carrier bag inside his familiar Marks and Spencer carrier, and left in the staff room in his briefcase. At lunch time he could remove the two carriers – and a third, for the money. He must not be lumbered with his briefcase. After the raid he could put the money and the disguise in his car, leaving nothing in the lavatory at all. But unless the day was fine there would be his ordinary raincoat and hat to be hidden and they were too bulky to wedge behind the cistern. It was a fair weather only plan.

  But he would never do any of it – not even the car part: it was just a diversion.

  Thinking of all this occupied Robbie while Isabel planned her interior decorations.

  On Saturday, after he had done the books for Caprice, he drove up to London, something he rarely did. He left the car near Wembley, taking a tube into the centre. There, he consulted the Yellow Pages and found a theatrical costumier. He went to the address, where he bought a bushy ginger beard and a matching wig. At a branch of Woolworth’s he bought some dark glasses.

  He already had suitable gloves, an old pair, worn soft and pliable; he kept them in the car.

  In the evening he went to the cinema.

  4

  Robbie tried the wig and the beard on when he reached home. He looked extraordinary in them: a hirsute monster with surprised brown eyes under brows already flecked with grey. But the brows would be hidden by the dark glasses: he tried them on too, and then his old tweed cap. It needed a good pull to get it on over the wig.

  He was totally unrecognizable: just a mass of brilliant hair with the cap and the glasses. He smiled at himself in the mirror as he slid his arms into the lightweight raincoat that was designed to take up little more space than a handkerchief. In it, he looked bulky. He pirouetted round his room, but quietly, for Isabel was asleep below.
/>   Then he took out the gun. He tried loading and unloading it; it was quite easy, but now he saw how impractical it was to use a shotgun on such a raid. It was too large to conceal. He loaded it again and pointed it down at the floor. If he fired at Isabel, in bed below, would he hit her or would the cartridges bury themselves in the floor? What if he tried it? He could plead an accident – manslaughter. It would be worth serving a few years in prison to be free.

  But he could be free of Isabel without so drastic a deed. He had only to walk out.

  He put the gun away.

  In the morning, as he walked along to Darcy’s for the paper, his actions of the night before seemed farcical. Reality was collecting the Sunday Express and the Sunday Telegraph and buying some toffees for Charlie. Then the short walk home as he studied the headlines: a strike threat; a murder in Soho; the arrest of a drug pusher.

  He took Isabel up her tray, with the Telegraph neatly folded beside her napkin. The first time he had ever taken her breakfast in bed, he had put a single rose on the tray. She had roared with laughter and thrown it on the floor. On that occasion he had hoped to be admitted into bed again himself.

  Over twenty years later he could stand back and marvel at his youthful naïvety. As a boy he had enjoyed reading tales of adventure in which heroines were rescued from dire fates; he saw himself as some sort of knight. True, Isabel wanted to be rescued from the NAAFI, but she needed no defending. Over the years she had told him often enough that he showed no initiative or drive. He had worked hard and conscientiously at the bank, but he lacked whatever quality was required for advancement. He seemed to need protection: the protection of the bank by day, and the domestic protection of Isabel’s dominance.

  Attempting to analyse his plight, Robbie was ashamed of his own weakness.

  He opened Isabel’s door and once again set the bed-table across her knees.

  ‘You must sort out your shed,’ she told him. ‘You can’t take it to Windsor Crescent. It wouldn’t look well at all. It’s much too shabby. Your bench can go in the garage.’ She did not want to stop his carpentry; it was a useful hobby and it kept him out of the house when she wanted to be in it. ‘Throw away all that rubbish you’ve got stacked there,’ she added. ‘Those old rags and tins of paint.’

  Robbie did not answer her. He turned and left the room. When he had finished his own breakfast he went out to his workshop and picked up a block of wood. He began whittling it into the shape of a dagger, and had nearly finished it when Charlie came round to see if they were going to wash the cars, as usual. Robbie gave him the wooden dagger.

  Wilfred Hunt was sure that Barry was telling the truth. He had known the boy for most of his life – had given him a lamb to keep as a pet when he was small and had taught him to drive the tractor when he was older. Now he faced Barry across his desk, like a headmaster, and repeated his question.

  ‘You didn’t come in here one day when I was out and borrow the gun, Barry?’

  ‘No, Mr Hunt.’

  ‘If you did, and you tell me and give it back, we’ll forget the whole thing. No harm’s been done,’ said Wilfred.

  ‘I didn’t take it.’ Barry’s mouth set in a sulky line.

  ‘It’s a very dangerous weapon. If it got into the wrong hands –’

  ‘I know that. I didn’t take it,’ Barry repeated.

  Wilfred sat back.

  ‘I believe you, Barry,’ he said, and then, ‘You hadn’t mentioned to any of your friends that there are guns here?’

  ‘No. But farmers always has guns,’ said Barry.

  ‘That’s true. Well, I’m sorry, Barry – I’ll have to report its loss to the police now and I expect they’ll want to question you. I’ll tell them I’m sure some outsider took it.’

  Robbie took his disguise to work with him on Monday morning. He put the beard, the wig, the dark glasses, the cap and the raincoat into a plain white carrier bag and packed them in his briefcase. They spent the day there, at the bank, and he left them in the case when he went home on Monday night.

  That evening there was a meeting of the Horticultural Society, and the chairman, who was one of Isabel’s customers, inquired about the impending move.

  ‘I do think you’re wise,’ she said. ‘Those new houses are quite charming. But won’t you miss your lovely garden? Have you taken lots of cuttings in preparation?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Robbie. ‘I thought I’d beg slips from everyone here, and help too,’ he added, in the joking tone he used at such times. But as he heard himself answer he knew he was compounding the facts: the Robinsons were moving and by implication it was with his consent; once again he had taken the line of least resistance.

  ‘A much better neighbourhood for you,’ nodded the chairman, who was the widow of a pharmacist. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t do it years ago – Claremont Terrace isn’t what it was.’

  Robbie said, ‘I’ll miss the neighbours.’

  The chairman looked rather surprised at this remark and declared the meeting open.

  Tuesday was wet. Robbie had brought no sandwiches today and he lunched at the Copper Kettle. He chose soup, a baked potato stuffed with sour cream, and cherry pie. While he ate, he did the crossword in the paper. At another table Angela Fiske and the bank’s typist, who was new, were eating rolls and butter: an economical meal. Angela waved at Robbie cheerfully and the typist smiled bashfully as Robbie waved back.

  Pulling his raincoat collar up, Robbie walked round to the recreation ground. He passed two cars with keys in their ignition. He went round the dripping laurels and into the lavatory. There was no one else there, and as he had done before, he entered a cubicle. Once inside, he opened his briefcase and took out the carrier containing, this time, his complete disguise. He stuffed it behind the cistern, pulled the chain and left.

  He would leave it there overnight, as a test: but of what?

  That evening Isabel was out. He did not know where she was, nor did he care, but guessed she had gone to have supper with Beryl Watson. Beryl lived in a remote hamlet six miles from the shop; there were several other cottages, transformed from farmworkers’ cottages into pretty weekend hideouts for fugitives from town, but Beryl’s was the only one that was occupied all the time; it had been a weekend retreat for her and her husband, and when they parted, in relief at gaining his freedom her husband had given her the cottage. Beryl found it rather isolated and Isabel often went there.

  Alone in the house, Robbie roamed around it. He felt at home only in his own room and the kitchen: the sitting room was furnished to Isabel’s taste with a gold-covered sofa and matching armchairs, and glass-topped occasional tables. He was always afraid of knocking something over or marking the upholstery. It had been far more comfortable before Isabel prospered and could buy all these things, when it was equipped with chairs they had bought at auctions, and tables he had made himself. Isabel had given all the old things to jumble sales.

  He opened the door of her bedroom and looked in. There was a faint smell of furniture polish; the cleaning woman had been today. Isabel’s dressing-table was quite bare; all her pots and unguents were kept hidden in drawers. She was very tidy. Her clothes all hung in the cupboard he had built for them. If he opened it, he would smell the bitter scent she used; or perhaps it was the scent of her own body. He closed the door.

  The spare bedroom, with its twin beds under counterpanes of quilted nylon taffeta, was quite impersonal. It was seldom used. Isabel had a sister who came with her husband at increasingly rare intervals for brief visits; they lived in Liverpool. Robbie had no relatives of his own, and no old friends; he had kept up with none of his childhood acquaintances nor anyone he had met in the army.

  He liked the kitchen in this house. He spent a lot of time in it, and he enjoyed its outlook over the garden. He knew what was expected of him here, and he had learned to avoid a lot of what he did not like. A whole new pattern would have to be devised at Windsor Crescent.

  If he did not defy Isabel now, he n
ever would: the rest of his life would be like the two decades past – meaningless. He walked slowly up the stairs to his own room, playing a game with himself: if he found the disguise still in position behind the cistern the next day, put it on, walked to the bank and entered, then left at once as if he had gone into the wrong building, and was able to resume his own identity without a hitch, he would leave Isabel. To make the test complete, he must also discover, though not steal, a car with a key in place. If it rained, the experiment was ruled out, because he would need to wear his own raincoat and hat out of doors and could not hide them while he wore the disguise.

  He had no gun, so it was all just a charade.

  He opened the drawer in his room where he kept trophies he had acquired through sending in cereal packet tops. There was a toy boat, a fire engine, a sheriff’s badge. And there was a toy pistol, made of some sort of plastic that looked metallic, a dull grey in colour.

  5

  During the night the rain stopped, and in the morning the radio weather forecast prophesied sunny intervals during the day. Robbie cut two rounds of bread and buttered them; he filled the sandwiches with cheese and wrapped them carefully in a polythene bag which he put in his briefcase, with the newspaper and his Marks and Spencer carrier. He tucked another carrier, a blue one, inside the green Marks and Spencer bag, and in that was the toy pistol; the bag itself, however, was to hold the money.

  The sky was still overcast when he reached Blewton and parked the car by the recreation ground, so he wore his raincoat and brown felt hat to the bank, but he took the old gloves out of the car and pushed them into his pocket.

  The day began normally. The new typist was feeling less strange; Philip Grigson was feeling important because Nigel West, the manager, was away on a week’s holiday in Majorca. The supervisor’s varicose veins were aching and once again she thought about having them treated. Angela Fiske’s head was full of her new boyfriend who was taking her out to a disco that night, and Wendy Lomax was still trying not to think about Terry, for whom she had turned down promotion. She had stayed in Blewton to be near him; when they met he was married, but soon afterwards he and his wife parted. His affair with Wendy had lasted for four years; then his wife had divorced him as she wanted to remarry and Wendy had expected, at last, to marry Terry. Instead, he had married someone else, a girl of twenty-two whom he had met at a party and of whose existence Wendy was unaware.