Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

  I stared at her miserably, but I had to dig for possibilities. ‘And no cheque book, cheque card, credit cards?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said sharply.

  I couldn’t see why it was ridiculous, but if she said so...I twisted my pipe in my fingers, letting her take her time. I glanced up, and she was reaching forward tentatively.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was just...I do apologise. But he had nothing like that.’ She paused. ‘And you’re only trying to help.’

  I’m not sure that my smile always helps. In the shaving mirror there’s just a craggy, square face, with a long scar on one cheek, but I don’t usually smile at myself. I risked it, and she didn’t flinch.

  ‘I just want you to trust me.’

  ‘You know I do.’

  I didn’t know that, but I nodded. ‘It’s the car that’s upset you?’

  ‘I did think that maybe he’d gone back home. You know what I mean — back to his own district. He was terribly depressed, and perhaps being with his old friends...

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘I tried phoning,’ she told me. ‘But I couldn’t drop on anybody who’d seen him. And without the car I couldn’t just go there myself, and I didn’t dare to he away from here too long.’

  She was lonely and frightened, and hanging onto everything by sheer force of personality. The interview was running out of enterprise, and in a minute we’d be chatting generally, but I had to get back to the office. Any minute now she’d realise she’d not offered me anything, and be dashing into her kitchen for the kettle. I heaved myself to my feet.

  ‘But now — you can leave it to us.’

  She smiled. Rising, for her, was one lithe movement. ‘The full majesty of the law?’

  ‘At least that,’ I assured her gravely. I led the way into the hall and took up my hat and coat. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  She reached out and touched my arm briefly. ‘And thank you. For what you’ve done.’

  ‘We haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘I think perhaps you have.’

  Because I sensed her watching from the window, I couldn’t sit relaxed in the car for a few minutes and gather my thoughts. I drove away, realising that Donaldson wasn’t necessarily going to treat it as a police matter at all. Not the Donaldson I recalled. He’d probably say: ‘Get out of it! He’s gone off with some fancy piece. You can bet on it.’ And I’d never be able to explain to him why I thought that was impossible.

  I was feeling angry and disturbed. The anger was easy to tie down, because it was at myself. I’d made a botch of it. Going myself to see her had been a mistake to start with. It’d given the matter an importance I’d never be able to justify, and Donaldson, just to be contrary, would probably tear into it with disgust and his usual lack of restraint. Or just do nothing. More than likely, I’d done Amelia Trowbridge a disservice, simply because I’d forgotten how close I was to my last day. I should have treated her with official reserve and formality. That I hadn’t been able to annoyed me.

  But my uneasiness I couldn’t isolate. It had something to do with the weather, I thought, and something to do with Clive Kendall.

  I drove directly back to the office. The sky was clouding, the heavy grey layer pressing in from the west. It was a day when the office offered some attraction, and maybe Merridew would get a few files looked at, after all. As I drew into the car park behind the station the snow had begun to fall, swirling round the building. A sudden gust nearly took the car door from my hand.

  I stood, holding down my hat and leaning forward against the wind, and recognised the reason for my uneasiness.

  It had happened on just such a day, but three years before, and it’d been the same hat, if not the same coat. A similar snow swirl had caught me, walking down the steps out at the front, heading for home. The Stag had been in for its MOT, but Vera had promised to pick me up with the Mini. For a moment, paused on the steps and realising how bad the weather was, I’d wished she hadn’t made that promise. There’d have been no point in going back to the phone — she’d have left home by that time.

  But she was unused to snow, and a nervous driver in the best weather. Only...she’d promised. Somehow, she’d manage it, because she’d promised.

  (...a trust simply in the truth of each other....)

  So I’d walked, head down, towards home, hurrying against the slant of the snow on the side facing oncoming traffic. My eyes were searching for the first sign of the Mini. It was red, so should’ve been easy to spot in the white blanket, even though the orange streetlights seemed to be beaten down and blunted.

  When the ambulance howl came up behind me, my heart began to race. It swept past. I broke into a stumbling run, feet unsure and my mac flying. Yes, I remembered, it’d been my belted mac with the shoulder flaps...God, it was so clear, every detail sharper than the snow-swirled reality.

  The Mini was nose-in to a lamp post. Vera was dead. Her blood was grey in the wan light, her eyes open as though she was still searching for me.

  It’d been on just such a night as this .

  But it wasn’t night, not even lunchtime. I shook myself, and let myself in through the rear door next to the canteen. The smell was of curry. Not curried chicken again! I stumped up the back stairs, and there was Merridew in my office, just banging down my phone.

  He turned. His mouth was a tight line. This was my Chief Super in one of his forced calm moods. He’d told me once that to lose your temper reduced your effectiveness. With him, it worked out that he restrained his impulses to such an extent that it all came out as a chill acidity.

  I pretended not to notice. ‘Chief?’

  ‘How many times,’ he wondered, ‘have we discussed this, Richard? If you want to go around in your own car, then have the thing fitted with a radio.’

  ‘A bit late for that, surely.’

  He drew himself up. ‘I am quite aware that you’re not wildly interested in what’s going on around here. That’s natural, I suppose. I can understand it. But you leave me high and dry...’

  ‘Something’s happened?’ I moved round the desk. The IN tray had grown considerably.

  ‘That was Latchett,’ he said. ‘They’ve found a man’s body in a cottage.’

  A man’s body! ‘They?’

  ‘He and a local man.’

  ‘That’d be Brason.’

  ‘All right. Brason.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On a farm called Swallow’s End. Wherever that is.’

  Brason had mentioned Swallow’s End. I snapped a mental finger. Yes, it was one of the farms Rennie had acquired.

  ‘I’ll arrange for a team to get out there.’

  ‘A team? Something you know?’ He was teetering on his heels, staring along his nose. It was a trick he used to gain in stature.

  ‘Any description?’ I asked.

  ‘You seem convinced it’s serious, but you haven’t heard any details. It could be a tramp, for all you know, died of exposure.

  ‘But it isn’t? All right. Let’s have it.’

  He gave a snort of disgust at my abruptness. No respect. ‘There’s not much to tell you. It’s a man, in an isolated cottage. All they’ve got is what they can see through a window. But I’m told there’s a shotgun involved, and Latchett said it’s murder.’

  ‘From a look through the window?’

  ‘He says so. They hadn’t got in when he called. Apparently, everything’s sealed.’

  ‘Sealed?’

  He shrugged. ‘Locked or fastened.’

  It was the classic set-up for accidental death or suicide.

  ‘But Ken says murder?’

  ‘He said that.’

  It was what I’d dreaded, something big breaking at the last minute. I wanted no part of it. ‘Then I’d better get moving,’ I said. Even to me my voice sounded harsh.

  But he was standing between me and the door. ‘Sit down a minute, Richard. I’d like a word.’

  I had an idea what tha
t word would be. I stared out of the window, at the snow slanting past it. Witnesses had said that Vera had braked hard to avoid a pedestrian, and really, she hadn’t been moving fast enough...I slid into my chair and thrust the files aside.

  ‘Come on, then, Paul. Out with it.’

  He remained standing, and spoke to a point a few inches over my head. ‘Donaldson’s coming along today.’

  ‘Looks like I’ll miss him. Pity.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Don’t pretend to be slow, Richard, when I know you’re way ahead. I could phone through and ask for him...now. On the strength.’

  ‘His posting’s not due —’

  ‘A formality. I could put him in charge of this case.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘It makes sense. Assume it really is murder — well, it’s common sense to maintain continuity, the man starting it off carrying it through.’

  ‘It’s my case.’

  ‘And it’s my station. Let’s not have a ridiculous argument.’

  ‘I’m the DI here. Therefore I take charge.’

  ‘And for how long? Ask yourself.’ His voice was cold. ‘You know damn well...with a murder case HQ will have a Super along here in no time. But if I get Donaldson...

  ‘Who’s also a DI.’

  ‘But not for long. It could be covered. We simply put his transfer forward a couple of days, and his promotion comes with it. Then— maybe— I’d be able to keep the case to ourselves.’

  ‘That’d be nice for you.’ I stared at the middle button of his uniform jacket. ‘You’d like that. Provided Donaldson pulls it off. But for now it’s my case, Paul.’

  ‘I wish I could say I’ll be sorry to see you go, Richard,’ he said softly.

  I smiled. ‘Continuity, Paul. And I’ve got a feeling I’m already way ahead on this one.’

  ‘I could simply make it an order.’

  I levered myself to my feet. ‘Certainly you could, but I’m heading out there right now. Have you thought of this? Brason and Latchett will’ve been out there all morning. It’s snowing, and there’s no dinky cafe to drop into for a cup of tea.’ I glanced out of the window again. It hadn’t stopped. ‘So I’ll get out there as tea-boy, take ‘em some sandwiches and coffee. No harm in that, now is there! Hell, as far as the murder’s concerned I might as well not be there. How’d that suit you? Just standing around, drinking coffee.’

  He stared at me without expression for a full ten seconds. He was making a mistake, and he knew it. There’d have been no harm in sending me out for a preliminary look at it. Then he could have contacted HQ, and maybe they’d have let Donaldson handle it. Maybe not. But Merridew had his pride. He and I had struck sparks against each other, but something had always come from it. Now he had to tell himself he wouldn’t miss the abrasion. Pride, that was his trouble.

  ‘Let me have something in writing before you go home,’ he said sharply, tossing his head.

  He left the door wide open.

  ‘Could be late,’ I said softly, but already his door had slammed.

  4

  I found the place easily enough, from the open gate on the right and the tyre tracks in the snow. The two cars were way up the slope, the tracks heading in a straight line along what must have been the farm approach road. Beyond them, on the brow of the hill, was the old farmhouse. Even from the road you could tell it was falling down.

  I plugged up the slope. It had stopped snowing. Each side of me, wheat stubble was sticking up through the latest fall. I went through two more open gates, two more fields, but it was still the same old stubble.

  Latchett and Brason were standing by the cars, Brason stamping his feet, though the surface wouldn’t be hard enough to help. I stopped the car and got out. Ken approached and said I’d taken my time, and I told him I’d been to see Mrs Trowbridge.

  ‘Your burnt-out car, Brason,’ I called, but he seemed unresponsive.

  Ken helped me out with the carrier and the two thermos flasks. Brason stood and watched.

  ‘Lonely out here,’ I said, pausing to look round, trying to be friendly with Brason.

  He stiffened, and became all formal. ‘It is now, sir. A few years back you’d have seen smoke from the farmhouse, and from a couple of tied cottages just behind that line of pines there. And from this one behind us. Now it’s like a lost kingdom.’

  I couldn’t see a cottage behind him. A straggly, layered thorn hedge headed off up a rise, at right angles to the farm drive. The building must have been over the brow.

  Ken saw me raise my eyebrows at Brason’s attitude. He said: ‘Brason wants to bugger off home. The missus’ll have his dinner ready.’

  ‘Really?’ We were loaded up. I slammed the car door with my knee. There’d be more to it than that. ‘But how can we possibly manage without his advice, Ken?’

  ‘I was about to tell him that.’

  ‘That’s why I brought sandwiches and coffee,’ I told Brason. ‘A bribe. Or don’t you chaps in the country take bribes? We do, don’t we, Ken?’

  ‘All the time,’ Ken agreed. ‘What’ve you got?’

  ‘Tell you what.’ I ignored Ken. ‘You pop along to that phone box I spotted just down the road, and call your missus. Tell her where you are and why, and say you’ll probably be late. Huh?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ken. ‘And if you’re not back, she can keep your tea ready. Maybe supper, too.’

  Brason saw he was being ribbed. For a second, colour rose to his cheeks. Then he grinned, and turned away to his car, with a sloppy kind of salute.

  ‘We’ll keep you something,’ Ken called after him.

  We watched him drive away.

  ‘Trouble?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s been grumpy. Helpful as hell, and looking forward to meeting you again, till I told him you’re on your last few days.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think I can understand that.’

  ‘He said he’d work right up to the last second, and go out with a bang.’

  ‘I might do exactly that.’

  So Brason had believed he’d been part of my tapering-off process, and resented it. I couldn’t say I blamed him. I shook my head. Work to do.

  ‘Well — tell me what happened. How’d you come to be out here?’

  We had turned away from the farm drive and were walking up the line of hedgerow. What I could feel through the snow didn’t seem to be plough furrows, so perhaps there was still a yard or two of approach-way left for the cottage.

  As the path rose, the chimney and then the roof of a square dwelling came into sight. It was set back from the hedge, and trees had been planted in the space provided. Fruit trees of some sort, I reckoned, though they looked lifeless at that time.

  There was a rustle under the hedge and a rabbit scrambled away. I watched it with interest, having thought they’d all died off. Ken was busy explaining.

  ‘I was waiting outside Rennie’s place, letting Brason work his own patch.’

  ‘Oh yes, Rennie. Did Brason find out anything about Ted Clayton?’

  ‘Nothing. Rennie swore he’d never heard of him. Come to that, he hasn’t had decorators in for a couple of years.’

  ‘Ah well, it was worth a try. You were saying?’

  ‘Well, I was leaning against the bonnet, and these two youngsters...oh, seventeen or eighteen...came belting down the side lane in a Ford pick-up, heading for Rennie’s place. When they saw it was a police car they had a word with me instead. They’d been up here, looking for somewhere quiet...you get the idea?’

  ‘I can remember the basics.’

  ‘And they looked in through the window, seeing if it was worth while getting in. Well, you’ll see. They were a sensible couple, and dashed off to tell Rennie. It’s his property.’

  ‘I know.’

  He’d stopped. The fruit trees on the left were backed by a line of evergreens I hadn’t noticed, and no part of the road below was visible. Behind us there was nothing but sky, in front a continuation of the rise, and to the right the co
ttage. Beyond it was a long vista down the valley, chequered and scarred with snow and isolated copses. In the far distance there was the tiny movement of a toy wagon.

  ‘Isolated,’ I murmured.

  There was a tatty wooden fence enclosing a yard or garden, it was impossible to tell which, and then the cottage. The footprints of Latchett and Brason drove a straight line to the front door, and two other sets went off at an angle towards the window. There was a small, collapsing porch over the door, and the remains of a rustic framework each side. The distance from the gap in the fence — there was no gate — to the front door was about thirty yards. It was large, I thought, to be considered as a cottage garden, and had probably been used as an open yard, with hens scratching, and perhaps a goat wandering round. Maybe somebody had once been very proud of the roses up the trellis each side of the door.

  The cottage seemed small, but that was possibly because of the immensity of space around it. The front door was set to the right, as I looked at it. There was a small window a few feet to its left, with a matching window above it and an even smaller one above the door. The woodwork showed no remnants of paint, and a few slates had slipped free from the roof. Two of them were standing on end in the gutter, which was close to collapse. Apart from a single, fist-sized hole in the living-room window, the glass seemed to be intact. In town, there wouldn’t have been one sliver left in the frames.

  ‘Have you been in?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. We went round the back. The front door’s solid, and all the windows are shut, and in the end Brason put a tyre lever to the back door.’

  ‘A tyre lever? You don’t see many of those around, these days.’

  Ken glanced at me, amusement in his eyes. ‘Brason says a lot of people around here run old cars with old tyres. He carries tyre levers just in case. You get the point?’

  ‘I guess they’ll miss him.’

  ‘Is he leaving?’

  ‘Sure to. He’ll be moving up.’

  ‘Yes.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Keep to the path,’ he added, as we moved on.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’re trip wires.’

  ‘You can’t mean...’

  ‘We’ve had time to scout around a bit. It’s wired everywhere except the gateway and this path. Nothing fancy, just string and old electric wire and the like, finishing up looped over the trees, with rusty cans tied to the ends. It’d make some sort of a warning system.’