Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  ‘How was it?’ he said when he'd finished. He looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘How was it for you?’ I asked, but he didn't seem to understand and I felt ashamed at teasing him. So I said, ‘That was great, Hubert. You could make your living at that. You've got a real flair for it.’

  He smiled self-consciously. ‘You'll feel really tired now, and sleep like a top.’

  He was right. I felt exhausted and when he went off to wash up, I curled up on the sofa and slept.

  When I woke up I'd been covered with my duvet and there was a pillow under my head. Hubert was closing my red velvet curtains against the blackest of skies. It was six p.m.

  ‘I'll make some toast,’ he said.

  He came back in a few minutes with a tray of tea and toast.

  ‘You don't keep very well stocked, do you?’ he complained. ‘What do you live on?’

  ‘Rubbish mostly. Anything that can be put on toast or eaten from the packet.’

  We ate in silence for a while. I suddenly felt awkward that Hubert was having to hang around playing nursemaid to someone who had only had a bit of concussion. ‘I'll be fine on my own now, thanks. I felt a bit jittery earlier on, but I'm over it now.’

  Hubert looked up at me, his brown eyes bright, and frowned. ‘Who did it?’ he said. ‘I'd like to break a neck or two.’

  I laughed in surprise at Hubert's intenseness. ‘He's only got one neck. But I've got ideas and I'm sure I can get him to confess.’

  ‘I don't want you trying any more stupid stunts on your own.’

  ‘Does that mean you'll come with me?’

  Hubert's eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Where?’

  ‘I'll explain tomorrow.’

  ‘You're getting to be a worry to me,’ said Hubert wearily.

  ‘Now, now, Hubert, you're beginning to sound like an anxious father.’

  ‘Not bloody surprising, is it?’

  ‘It was only a minor head injury,’ I said. ‘I wasn't on lifesupport.’

  ‘Very nearly. You were semi-conscious for twenty-four hours.’

  That still surprised me. It was only one day in my life but its loss had managed to disorientate me.

  For a while we watched television, and although it flickered in the corner I couldn't concentrate and neither could Hubert. He fell asleep, snoring, and I watched him guiltily. He looked thinner in the face and paler. He slept until ten and when he started to stir I suggested he should go home to bed. He didn't argue.

  ‘You just make sure you lock all the doors and windows,’ he said. ‘And at the slightest sound, phone the police.’

  ‘If I hear so much as a creaking floorboard,’ I assured him.

  ‘There's no need to be flippant.’

  ‘Sorry, Hubert,’ I said and kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  His pallor lifted a shade then and he moved his shoulders in an embarrassed shrug and grimaced slightly. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he mumbled as I closed the front door.

  I decided to sleep on the sofa that night. Downstairs was more cosy and I could watch television until I slept. With Hubert's reassuring snoring gone the house seemed quiet. I turned up the television and lay on the sofa.

  It was a buzzing sound that woke me up. The BBC had finished for the night. Getting up, I switched off the set and removed the plug and then in the silence I could hear it. A soft, shuffling noise, a bird or an animal, or … or shoes on gravel. There was someone outside.

  Chapter Twenty

  The silence that followed frightened me more than the footsteps. I stood still in the middle of the room, my breathing fast and shallow, my throat dry. Don't panic, I said to myself, but I wasn't anyway, I was moving and thinking in slow motion, telling myself what to do. Go to the window, I told myself. I moved to the window, pulling the red velvet aside in a minute crack. I could see the front gate and the shaft of upward light of the spotlight outside the church. And the two trees with bare gnarled branches reaching wide, like giant claws.

  I replaced the curtain and listened again. Could I have imagined the footsteps? Now there was no sound. Then suddenly in the silence, loud rapping on the front door. I couldn't see who stood on the porch from the front window and even if I went to the front door I had no spyhole.

  I rang the police.

  ‘There's a murderer on my doorstep,’ I blurted out. ‘He's here, please come quickly.’

  ‘Calm down, Miss…?’

  ‘Kinsella.’

  ‘Now, Miss Kinsella. What's the address?’

  I gave him the address.

  ‘You stay put, miss, and we'll be there as soon as we can.’

  Stay put! I thought, what else could I do and what did ‘as soon as we can' mean?

  The rapping became more insistent. I walked out into the hall.

  ‘Go away,’ I yelled. ‘The police are on their way.’

  ‘I am the police,’ came the deeply masculine reply. ‘It's Constable Spratton from Great Yearby. Open the door, madam.’

  Even then I wanted to be sure. Anyone could say they were a policeman. I got down on my hand and knees and lifted my ridiculously low letter-box. Huge, black shoes that shone to perfection and above them a glimpse of black socks were, I thought, identification enough.

  ‘You're nervous,’ said Constable Spratton, as I opened the door. He must have heard me lift the letter-box.

  ‘Just eccentric,’ I said, smiling weakly. Even with his helmet on he was handsome. Broad-shouldered but with lean hips, he looked athletic and in my rush of relief, even intrepid.

  ‘May I come in?’

  I showed him through to the sitting-room and asked him to sit down. He sat in the spare armchair, his long legs taking up much of the floor space and as he removed his helmet, although he lost inches, he gained in charm. With his helmet off, and by the light of the lamp, I could see his eyes properly: deep blue eyes and the ability to stare without seeming rude. I was disconcerted by his eyes and the fact that for a while he didn't say a single word. It was as if he'd taken a course in counselling that recommended staying silent and letting the client wade into their tale of woe. So I started. I'd just launched into what would have been a detailed description of events when I noticed him smiling.

  ‘Was it you creeping round the house?’ I asked.

  ‘Not creeping,’ he said. ‘That's difficult in size twelves. I made as much noise as possible. I was asked to keep an eye on your house—’

  ‘I called the police a few moments ago,’ I interrupted. ‘They won't be pleased to come out on a false alarm.’

  ‘I'll give the station a call on my two-way, and explain the situation.’

  I mouthed ‘Tea?’ as he began speaking into his radio. He nodded. As I came back from the kitchen I heard him mumbling about me. It seems I was a neurotic spinster. I wouldn't have bothered with my best china mugs if I'd known.

  I stayed silent then, and after a few sips of his tea, he said, ‘I don't approve of women private detectives.’

  ‘Have you known any?’

  He shook his head, his close-cropped dark hair moving slightly like burnt stubble in a high wind. I was rapidly finding him less attractive.

  ‘A dangerous occupation,’ he continued. ‘You seem a bit too nervous for any rough stuff.’

  ‘It's brain more than brawn you need,’ I answered defensively. ‘I do medical investigations. There shouldn't be too much rough stuff attached. Anyway, I'm tougher than I look.’

  He smiled patronisingly and I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I said. ‘I'm fine now. The crack on my head must have made me a bit wary of receiving another one.’

  ‘I'll stay for a bit,’ he said. ‘You can tell me who you think is trying to murder you.’

  I gave him a baleful stare. Now I no longer found him attractive I didn't want him to stay, but he lounged in the armchair as if sitting there was a whole lot better than hanging about on my front doorstep.

&nbs
p; ‘I prefer not to discuss my cases with the police. I'd be quite happy, though, if we talked about something else,’ I said. ‘And anyway, I've been having terrible bouts of nausea. You know the type of thing – great heaving waves – I can't control it at all. Talking murder would just make it worse.’

  He grimaced, passed his hand through his hair, realised his helmet wasn't on, and, snatching it from the table, was on his feet and walking towards the door in seconds. ‘I'm okay with haemorrhage, fire or flood but I can't cope with … illness,’ he said, opening the door. ‘I'll check the house again later.’

  I stood at the front gate as he walked the few yards up the road to his bike propped against a wall. I was smiling. I'd got my own back. I watched his rear light disappear into the darkness and I stood for a few moments, pleased with myself, until I realised I was still wearing my best dress and little bits of toast had stuck to it.

  I slept badly after that; the sutures pricked like slivers of glass and by seven I'd bathed, had breakfast, and decided to get to the office early. I was just leaving when the phone rang. It was Hubert.

  ‘Thought I'd better let you know, Kate, CID want to interview you today.’

  ‘When did you find out about this?’ I asked.

  ‘When you were in hospital,’ said Hubert. ‘They questioned me for quite a long time.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your sanity.’

  ‘My sanity!’

  ‘They seem to think you could be a nutter.’

  ‘I banged myself over the head, is that it? Why didn't you tell me they wanted to see me before?’

  ‘Didn't want to cause a relapse, did I?’

  ‘I'm coming into the office now.’

  Hubert cleared his throat. ‘Are you well enough?’

  ‘No. I'm nuts.’

  ‘Don't upset them. They seem a bit edgy.’

  ‘I shall play it by ear, Hubert. Just because the police here are so incompetent they couldn't catch measles, doesn't mean I've got to act like a dumb blonde.’

  ‘Redhead,’ corrected Hubert.

  ‘It's dyed.’

  ‘It looks natural,’ he said, obviously disappointed.

  ‘Bye. See you at the office.’

  At ten a.m. the CID arrived, ushered in by Hubert, who gave me a warning glance as he was about to leave the office. In return I gave him a quick salute, which didn't go unnoticed by Inspector Hook. The expression on his face seemed grim, slightly antagonistic. Detective Sergeant Roade, still spotty, managed a half-smile.

  ‘You two friends, are you?’ he asked, tossing his head at Hubert's receding back.

  I was about to say no, he's my landlord, but Hubert was a friend and a good one. ‘We're friends,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Have you got many friends, Miss Kinsella?’ He seemed to infer I didn't deserve any.

  ‘No, not many. I've only recently moved here.’

  ‘From London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ever been in trouble with the police?’

  I paused, watching his eyes flicker with interest. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I have. Why don't you both sit down.’

  Hook sat on the corner of the desk; he was much too shrewd to sit in the armchair.

  ‘Ever been in trouble with the police?’ he repeated as though I hadn't quite understood the question.

  ‘Yes,’ I said again.

  ‘Crime?’ he asked eagerly. His expression of mere surprise had changed to one of excitement, his greenish eyes glistening like sun shining on dewy grass.

  I didn't answer immediately.

  ‘Crime?’ he persisted.

  ‘Living with a drunken copper. I got three years solitary. He was always in the pub.’

  ‘Very funny. We are trying to establish …’

  ‘My sanity.’

  DS Roade sniggered. He stood by the door, his elbow propped against the wall in a pose he probably thought was worldly-wise. He wore a smart pale grey pinstripe but it gave the impression that it was his first ever suit, like a young footballer just into the first division, who thinks he should make it obvious that he's a success. Inspector Hook, in contrast, wore a well-worn, light brown number with shiny patches on the lapels and the air of a man who was long past worrying about the impression he made.

  ‘We have to be careful about private detectives in these parts,’ he was saying. ‘We're not used to them. And as I've just been trying to say, we do want to establish that we're not overlapping in this investigation.’

  ‘I thought you were trying to find out who attacked me?’

  ‘Of course, we've already spoken to most of the staff at St Dymphna's,’ he blustered. ‘And we've got a good idea who did it. You mustn't underestimate us, Miss Kinsella – we do use modern police methods.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He frowned, seeming to indicate he'd noticed the insincerity in my voice.

  ‘Right, Miss Kinsella,’ he said, ‘let's start to take things seriously, shall we?’

  He was rattled now, I could tell, so I suggested coffee. Only Roade accepted. While I waited for the kettle to boil Hook drummed his fingers on the desk and I couldn't think of a thing to say.

  Once the coffee was made and poured, Hook sighed loudly. ‘Perhaps now we could move this interview along,’ he said. ‘What exactly happened the night you were attacked? I want to know times, reasons – the lot.’

  The moment he asked the question my mind went blank. ‘I …’ I paused and swallowed, ‘Inspector,’ I said. ‘I can't remember.’

  He pursed his lips, in annoyance or disbelief; I couldn't be sure which.

  ‘I'll try to refresh your memory,’ he said caustically. ‘You were found unconscious in the porter's lodge. Why were you there in the first place?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to Mick O'Dowd.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That's personal.’

  ‘So was the crack on your head. You could have died. Now come on, Miss Kinsella, let's go back over events, shall we?’

  Yes, let's go back over events, shall we? And that gave me my first good idea in ages. A reconstruction. I could do my own reconstruction. In the grounds at night. If I could solve Jacky's death, then the other deaths would …

  ‘Miss Kinsella!’

  ‘Call me Kate.’

  Hook grimaced, ‘Kate, then. We're waiting. And I warn you now, I'll do you for wasting police time.’

  He forced me to lie. I told him I was visiting Mick because I suspected him of killing Jacky.

  ‘Foolhardy, weren't you? You suspect him of murder and yet you go to see him on your own in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Put like that it does seem a bit chancy, but I felt I could handle it if I was diplomatic enough. Anyway, Mick wasn't a danger to me, was he?’

  ‘You quite sure about that?’ asked Hook, raising one quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean, are you so sure that it wasn't Mick himself who hit you?’

  Was the man mad? ‘How could he? He was lying down, as near to death as anyone can be.’

  ‘You're sure of that? With your memory being so impaired.’

  ‘Only a momentary loss, I can assure you. I wasn't braindamaged by the blow.’

  ‘I'm sure you weren't,’ said Hook with a hint of a smile. ‘Now just tell me what happened from the moment you left the ward.’

  I thought back, trying to remember the details, the minute details. ‘I left the ward,’ I began, ‘just after one thirty. It was icy cold so I borrowed Linda's cloak and I went straight over to the porter's lodge—’

  ‘What was the ground like?’

  ‘Wet, but the snow had gone. There was a light on in the lodge and a crack in the curtains. I knocked and called out, but of course there was no response.’

  ‘So you made plenty of noise.’

  I shrugged. ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘The stairs creaked on my way up.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘I
opened the door—’

  ‘How did you open the door?’ asked Hook.

  ‘I just pushed it open and walked in. Mick was lying on a mattress on the floor in a corner of the room. I thought at first he was asleep but then I realised he was Cheyne-Stoking—’

  ‘He was what?’

  ‘Cheyne-Stokes, it's a type of breathing. It's a sure sign that someone is dying. It's like loud snoring but the pauses are extra long; so long that each one seems to be the last. At first I didn't recognise it but as soon as I did I moved forward and then, wallop!’

  ‘You didn't hear any footsteps?’

  ‘Not exactly. In the split second I did hear a noise I didn't have time to turn.’

  ‘What about the door?’

  ‘The door?’ I echoed.

  ‘Yes, the door! Did you close it or leave it open?’

  I tried to think back. I pushed the door, noticed the table and the blood-red blanket, heard the groaning snores, walked across three paces …

  ‘No,’ I said, remembering, ‘I didn't close the door.’

  ‘So he could have been waiting for you,’ said Hook triumphantly.

  ‘He?’ I was finding Hook's line of questioning rather baffling.

  ‘Your attacker.’

  ‘But why should it have been a he?’ I said and even as I spoke the words I knew I should have followed my instinct all along. My attacker was female. A male would have finished me off.

  Hook shrugged and shifted uncomfortably on the corner of my desk.

  ‘You should try the chair,’ I said, but ignoring me he stood up for a moment to east himself and then sat down again. I was longing to ask who he had in mind but I controlled myself. I didn't think Inspector Hook was too impressed by my answers so far.

  ‘It seems, then,’ he said slowly, ‘that your attacker was waiting for you.’

  ‘That's ridiculous. Only Linda knew I was going to see Mick that night.’

  ‘She had a phone call after you left the ward. She told someone where you were. Didn't she tell you that?’

  I shook my head. I was surprised but I didn't want to show it. ‘Who was it who rang?’ I asked, trying to sound casually unconcerned.

  ‘That's confidential. I'm sorry.’

  He wasn't sorry, of course, he was pleased to have a secret.