Seeing Red

by Roger Ormerod

  He was dressed with the same casual expensiveness as I’d noticed before, and moved around the kitchen with an air of belonging that I found irritating. Angie remembered her manners.

  ‘You should have called before, Neville.’ Not chiding him, but lightly, as though she’d have been glad to see him.

  ‘You know how it is...’ He shrugged, accepted a cup of coffee, and sat with the letters under his nose. ‘But I’ve come now.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have a specific reason?’ I asked.

  ‘Wanted to see how you were getting along.’

  ‘We manage,’ said Angie.

  ‘And frankly,’ he admitted, with one of his challenging grins, ‘I was wondering if anybody’s mentioned the records.’

  We stared at him. He raised his eyebrows. ‘Uncle Gledwyn’s jazz collection,’ he amplified. ‘He did say I could have them, me being the only one who appreciated them, sort of.’

  ‘I haven’t even heard of them!’ Angie burst out.

  I glanced at her. It was not a subject that required that tone of near-hysteria, but the incongruity of it probably shocked her.

  ‘Old seventy-eights,’ he explained. ‘Priceless now. Some Coleman Hawkins, and a lot of the Duke’s that’re unique. Some others, too.’

  ‘Well,’ said Angie, recovering. ‘You’re quite welcome to come along and look them out. When you like. But not now.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks. No time now, anyway.’ He glanced at his watch, but made no move to leave.

  I waited a minute. He stirred his coffee. Then I asked: ‘There was something else?’

  His eyes glinted at me, then down. ‘It’s Lynne. Tell you the truth.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s not well.’

  ‘What d’you mean by not well?’

  ‘Last night — damn it, she’s usually full of life. But she didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to talk, or go to my place and play a few tracks. You know. In the end...well, we had a bit of a row, if you want to know, and I walked out. This was round at her place.’ His eyes met mine. ‘Have you seen the dump?’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’

  It was what he’d been angling to hear. The spoon clattered, and suddenly he looked tensely violent. ‘I guessed it! She wouldn’t say. You’ve been talking to her. What’ve you been telling her about me?’

  You have to maintain a placid tone for this sort of thing. I smiled to help it along. ‘Nothing, I assure you. I don’t know anything about you that she doesn’t already. Did she tell you I did?’

  ‘It was all there could be. What else is there?’ He got to his feet, cup in hand, and gulped down his coffee. ‘It’s been going on for months, colder and colder, and I can’t get through to her. Damn it, I thought it was the job, here, getting her down. I thought when...when it finished she’d come round. Oh Christ, I dunno. I dunno a thing.’

  ‘If,’ I pointed out, ‘it’s been going on for a long while, why blame me?’

  He stared at me. A struggle was engaged behind his eyes, and then he won through. He grinned at me, and the little boy showed through. ‘You know me.’ He ran a hand over his hair. ‘I’ve gotta find somebody to blame.’

  Then he looked round, nodded vaguely, and marched out into the yard.

  ‘Jazz records?’ said Angie. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of them,’ and I’d swear she hadn’t taken in a word of Neville’s outburst.

  I was already slitting open the envelope. A plain sheet of paper again, and plain, uncompromising printing.

  WHY DON’T YOU SEND THAT NOSY

  BASTARD AWAY BEFORE HE DYES.

  I heard Angie gasp from behind my shoulder, but I was too busy sorting out impressions to pay much attention to her.

  If my assailant of the night before was the author of these notes — and it would be a coincidence if he wasn’t — he’d have issued the threat, by posting it, before the opportunity presented itself, but in practice he’d been careful not to kill me. That was the first thought. Then I noticed we’d got the apostrophe in ‘don’t’ this time. Being accurate. But not so good with DYES. Strange, that. He’d faltered on DIED in the first one, DYES in the second. There was a psychological block there, and the realisation sent little prickles running down my spine. We were probably dealing with someone to whom death had been a traumatic experience. Who else, then, but a murderer?

  I didn’t point this out to Angie, mainly because there were faults in the logic. She gave a short, broken laugh, and said there we were then, and perhaps I’d better make myself scarce.

  ‘Would you care for a look round the shops?’ I asked. ‘I was rather thinking of Shrewsbury.’ I’d need a town as large as that.

  I’d slipped the letter into my inside pocket, the sun was slanting through the kitchen window, and Angie grabbed at it like a lifeline.

  ‘Oh yes!’ she cried. ‘It’s going to be a lovely day, and I must start thinking about a winter coat.’

  We did a cross-country run towards Welshpool, and cut across through Llandrinio and Coedway. The weather helped, and Angie, who’d been showing signs of tension before we set out, had it all in control by the time I found a parking space in Shrewsbury. She’d smoothed out into relaxed chatter, and only once or twice, when I caught a brief glimpse of her eyes, did I feel any uneasiness.

  We found somewhere we could meet up and I left her. Shrewsbury was a strange town for me, apart from that appointment café I’d used for Phil, and I had to search around a little before I found one of those car accessory and do-it-yourself places.

  They had a rack of motor vehicle spray paints in cans in every conceivable colour. They had a list hanging on the corner of the shelving, from which, knowing the make and year of your car, you can select the correct colour. I looked up Ford, then green, then Escort, and the year, which I knew to be 1972. There was only one green listed: Fern Green (Met).

  I’d never done any touch-up spraying, but I’d heard you run through the first can just practising the distance and the movement of your hand. I bought a can. The lid was coated with the same colour as the contents, a not very vivid green.

  I managed to meet up with Angie, but unfortunately too early, and had to trail round the shops she’d missed. But I had recourse to my thoughts to lessen the strain.

  ‘I’ve bought the smartest winter coat you ever did see,’ she told me, and there was some discussion on flyaway collars and things like that. I peered into the carrier bag I was holding, fingering aside the tissue paper. The coat was green, not too different from the can in my pocket. ‘You’ll love it,’ she said, as though I’d be around to form an opinion.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Lunch in Shrewsbury; I was beginning to wish we hadn’t got to drive away and home to Viewlands — and trouble. But I kept my mind on the job by phoning Lynne from there and asking her if she’d run over around three and help me in the lab with something I had in mind. She sounded depressed and cold at first, but then seemed to perk up at the thought of something useful she could do, and said she’d be there.

  I mentioned this when we got back. Angie hesitated, then said: ‘I wish you wouldn’t encourage her.’

  I was dumping bags on the kitchen table. ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘She’s been grabbing at any paltry excuse for coming here. Moons around in the lab, and there’s absolutely nothing for her to do. She’s only upsetting herself.’

  ‘I’ve got a job for her. That’s what makes her happy.’

  She shrugged and went off to change. It appeared there’d been no word from Evan, and I wondered whether he’d returned to his duties at the University.

  But he had not. Perhaps he’d been perched high in a tree with binoculars, but certainly he made an early appearance, bouncing into the kitchen and standing with his hands on his hips, looking very uncertain of his reception.

  ‘She’ll be down in a minute,’ I said.

  ‘It’s you I want to see.’

  Liar, I thought. ‘I’m here.’
/>
  He looked even more uneasy, not sure of me even when I was trying to be encouraging. ‘I wanted to know if there’ve been any more threats.’ Looking up under his shaggy eyebrows. ‘You can be sure she’ll never tell me.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s me who’s threatened this time.’

  He didn’t know whether to smile or be heavily sympathetic. The smile won. ‘Oh...I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t ask what I was threatened with. Perhaps he didn’t want to hear the word death. Or maybe he didn’t even like to write dies, spell it how you like.

  I wandered out to put away the Rover. Having a garage was still a luxury that I liked to indulge in. I backed it in and got out. There was room and to spare. Then, my intention being to use the end door to get into the lab, I slammed down the up-and-over door from inside. It presented me with a plain surface, which gave me an idea. I retrieved my spray-can from the car, put on the light, and read the instructions. I shook it vigorously for two minutes, as instructed. After that, you have difficulty finding the reserve energy to press the button.

  Not only had I never done any car spraying, I’d not even tried spray-can graffiti. My life was an unfulfilled void. So I tried it. You hold the can only a foot away. In large, smug and self-satisfied bliss, I wrote my first exercise in graffiti. Graffito, I suppose, as it was singular.

  HARRY KYLE

  To my disappointment, when it dried I could hardly see it. The inside of the garage door and the walls were painted green, and a shade not far from the one I was using. Seeking a better surface to deface, I strolled into the lab, just as one of the doors into the yard was flung open.

  Angie stood there, Evan at her shoulder looking very close to scared. Angie’s eyes were wild and her gestures uncontrolled.

  ‘There’s no jazz!’ she cried. ‘No jazz at all.’ Evan shrugged expressively. I walked towards them.

  ‘I’ve been looking through all daddy’s records,’ she burst out, reaching out a hand. ‘There’s not one. No seventy-eights at all. Oh...Harry!’

  That she used my Christian name with such familiarity in front of Evan gave me a feeling of responsibility, and the sick realisation that her self-sufficiency was receiving a battering.

  ‘They need not be there,’ I said quietly. ‘An attic, or...’

  She clutched at Evan’s arm. ‘We’ll search the attic.’

  ‘But more likely he invented it,’ I assured her. ‘An excuse. He wanted to talk about Lynne, but for all his outspokenness he’s shy.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘You should. But don’t get upset about it. Go and take a walk through the orchard or something.’

  She eyed me uncertainly, but Evan drew her away. He spoke to her quietly, but I noticed she kept her distance from him as they crossed the yard.

  When I turned, still in search of a useful surface, Lynne was standing at the far end of the lab. She’d coasted in the Fiesta quietly and let herself into her office. I suddenly realised what a basically quiet young woman she was, even withdrawn.

  ‘What did Neville say to you about me?’ she asked, frowning.

  ‘Oh dear, how suspicious everybody is.’ I took her arm and led her into the centre of the lab. ‘He was worried about you, Lynne. Don’t you know what his feelings are?’

  She gently prised herself free. ‘Neville’s a fool, I’ve told him that. I don’t like him discussing our affairs with strangers.’

  ‘Am I a stranger?’

  ‘All the same...he’s got no right. I never promised him anything.’

  ‘We didn’t discuss promises and intentions — he demanded to know what I’d told you about him. I think he might’ve punched me on the nose, given a bit of encouragement.’

  I grinned at her. My nose had been punched before, and shows it. My face has a generally battered appearance, and I was probably more experienced than Neville in nose-thumping. She smiled back, showing teeth I hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Oh, I’d love to see him try.’ Then she was at once efficient. ‘But you wanted me for something...’

  ‘Ah...yes. Something I could never manage on my own. I’m sure you could do it in your sleep. I’ve got some little scraps of paint. What I’d like you to do is put ’em under one of these instruments and check the colours for me.’

  ‘Little scraps?’

  I’d noticed sheets of white card around, and now laid one out on the bench. I produced my envelope and shook out my scraps of paint. Two red, five green.

  ‘Those.’

  She stood and stared down at them. One had split up, and there were now three red.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ It was a very small voice.

  ‘Don’t worry your head about that. What I’d like is for you to classify them, all neatly like a scientific experiment, and perhaps mounted or something, as a record.’

  ‘A record of what?’

  ‘Call them evidence, if you like.’

  She did not raise her head. I had to listen carefully to catch her words. ‘You’ll have to tell me what they’re from.’

  ‘Though of course, if you’d rather not do it, Evan Rees is around somewhere. I’m sure he’d know what to do.’

  ‘I don’t want him touching my instruments!’

  ‘Of course not.’ I made an unconcerned operation out of filling my pipe and moved a few feet away. ‘Which instrument will you use?’

  Prompted by her reaction, I was deliberately giving her the opportunity to destroy them in some way, sweep them from the desk and grind them underfoot perhaps. It was a risk, but I’d judged her accurately. When I turned she was staring at me, her face expressionless, but with no sullen look to match the voice she’d been using.

  ‘I’ll get the mounting adhesive,’ she said, and she walked off into her office.

  There was a little window between the lab and the office. I could see her moving beyond it, taking more time than necessary. She returned, carrying her equipment. I said nothing as she drew a stool up to the bench and slid, without realising it, into a professional intensity of concentration that must have been worth a fortune to Gledwyn. She was mounting each piece of paint, using tweezers as delicately as a brain surgeon’s scalpel, on little plaques of white plastic. She glanced up at me, her mouth in a wry smile.

  ‘How do I label them?’

  ‘Red one, red two, red three and so on.’

  ‘All from the same source?’ There was efficiency in her voice, but she was still probing.

  ‘Put ESCORT underneath. In capitals.’

  Her body was still, but the tweezers vibrated like a tuning fork. Her voice was very low. ‘These are from Gledwyn’s car?’

  ‘That is so.’ Gravely formal.

  ‘You should have said.’

  ‘Would it have made any difference? Does it upset you to handle tiny bits of his car?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. I just...didn’t want to get involved with all this...he’s dead, gone...why do you have to rake around…’

  I waited, lighting my pipe laboriously. There always seems to come a time when you become aware that vital information is being concealed. Sometimes it’s possible to wait and allow it to emerge in its own time. Sometimes there’s more urgency, and you have to put on the pressure. I’d deliberately set up the scene, knowing what the answers would be, but something very strange was restraining Lynne, and the pressure had to be stronger. I felt lousy.

  ‘It’s a matter of how his death came about,’ I said.

  ‘You know how!’ Her upturned face was red. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Then...why? Shouldn’t we know why he had the accident?’

  She spoke stubbornly to the bench. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’ And she returned to her task, clearly not expecting me to continue the discussion.

  Gradually her hands lured her into relaxation. She loved to use them. She got up from the bench.

  ‘I think we’ll use the Lovibond,’ she said chattily. ‘The Burnham-Wright’s real
ly for portable work. You take the instrument to the job.’

  She plugged in the Lovibond. I caught a splash of brilliant white light, then I moved to her shoulder and got a closer introduction to this instrument. It was a square box with an eyepiece in one corner and a set of nine slider controls on the top to operate the filters. From the left side there were two flexible tubes that led to a little feeler. She told me the tubes were optic fibres, and the feeler was in fact the viewer. She adjusted the two light-intensity controls on the top. She placed the viewer on the sample on the bench, put her eye to the eyepiece, and began juggling the levers at the top.

  ‘He was always talking about getting a spectrophotometer,’ she said, ‘but they’re very expensive. This is more fun, though.’

  Fun? ‘One thing I just don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Cast your mind back to the night Neville brought him back from Aberystwyth.’

  ‘This one’s easy,’ she said, eye well down, voice muffled. ‘A bright red.’ She consulted a notebook from the drawer. ‘I make it 2R 10/4 on the Munsell scale.’

  ‘The night Carla died,’ I reminded her.

  She glanced up. ‘If I’d been able to leave earlier...’

  ‘Try another red.’

  ‘Why are we talking about Carla?’

  ‘To remind you of the night we’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m not talking about it. I don’t ever want to remember that night.’

  ‘I wanted you to remember the night Gledwyn got home from his visit to Paul. Try another red. Now...wait.’

  I caught her by the arm before she could get too far and levered her persuasively back onto the stool. She was protesting.

  ‘You ask me to do something for you, then you deliberately upset me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t anything upsetting I was going to ask.’

  She sat. She placed the viewing head on one of the other reds. ‘Go on then, ask.’

  ‘You told me he tore up his speech and stormed out,’ I said to her bent head. ‘And you set to and re-typed it for him.’

  ‘This red’s the same.’ She marked it up.