I stared at my empty glass, mourning its emptiness.
‘But I know that young woman,’ I went on. ‘She’d realised he was upset and under strain. D’you think she’d leave him on his own? No! Phil — have you realised that Lynne must have been in love with him! Maybe she was no more than his assistant. But it explains why she went cool with Neville. The poor young bugger didn’t know whether he was coming or going. But she would not leave Gledwyn to fret alone. She’d give it a few minutes, and then follow him up to the house...and find what? Find Gledwyn looking at his handiwork in the garage? The Escort with one wing green and the rest red! Can’t you see her standing there and realising that this wonderful man of hers had run down her friend and left her to die?’
I’d used up all my inspiration. I fumbled with my pipe. Phil seemed to be doing very little to help. At last he said: ‘Then what?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, how do I know!’
‘You’ve done all right so far, with that imagination of yours.’
‘Imagination? It fits the circumstances. All right. See how you like it. Say she walked up to the house — or drove up. There was Gledwyn — and he’d had a lousy time the last week. He’d be as low as you could push anybody, and standing there looking at what he’d done to escape the consequences of his bloody feebleness. Not feeble, then, if you don’t like that word. His whole life had been a kind of nervous moral courage. Perhaps he saw the Escort as evidence of his complete failure. What d’you want — Freud? And when she stood there, realising...what if he was in love with her, and hadn’t ever admitted it because of his age? What if he couldn’t stand it anymore, looking at her, knowing what he’d done? I’m trying to see it, Phil, and you’re not helping. Can’t you imagine him getting into that Escort — hell, he’d even have the spectacles with him, from the Convention — and driving off, anywhere away from her.’
‘Anywhere? To do what?’
‘What do I know about his thoughts? Suicide? Or to go to the police and confess? I’d guess either. But Lynne might see suicide in his intentions. Jump into her own car, blind after him. She’d do that. It was late, he was out of practice with cars, and her car would be faster. If she got past him — where could she brake and be sure he couldn’t get past her — make him stop — talk to him — tell him...whatever she could tell him? At the single-lane stretch by the new roadway, that’s where. If she’d been able to get in front of him just before then, and braked...hell, haven’t I told you how he’d see braking lights as white! He’d ram on his brakes, and go off the road.’
‘You make a good case, Harry.’
Good — and I hated it. My voice was dull when I went on: ‘There was an anonymous caller. Hysterical, I was told. As she’d be, watching him go up in flames.’
He was silent. I’d run out of tobacco and went to the counter to get an ounce of flake. I hadn’t really run out; I wanted to give Phil time to absorb it.
Sergeant Timmis was suddenly at my elbow. ‘Join you?’ He nodded over at the table, where Phil was sitting like stone.
‘You interrupt now,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll kill you.’ I eyed him with anger. ‘And why aren’t you at Wilmington Court?’
‘It’s what I wanted to talk about.’ But he smiled, and raised his glass, watching me return to the table.
Phil said: ‘Harry, how can I tell her that?’
‘It’s difficult,’ I agreed savagely. ‘Her brother’s with her now, with his wife. They’ll be painting a sour picture of her father, you can bet. So you go to Angie and you tell her the truth — and you can’t do it without all the character background — then what? Maybe she won’t be able to get away fast enough. You tell me. But you might not like what you take back with you.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It depends on how I put it across.’
Which was what I was afraid of. I searched round for any way the story could be softened for her.
‘You wouldn’t have to tell her why Lynne killed herself,’ I said.
‘I don’t know, anyway.’
‘Isn’t it obvious, you fool? She saw me getting close to it. She didn’t want to have to face the thing, and perhaps have to give evidence of what she knew. Maybe...’ I glanced at him. He wasn’t great on imagination, so perhaps I was pushing him too far. ‘Maybe she’d been able to hold it all back in her subconscious, and she dreaded having to take it out and look at it.’
‘You dream things up, Harry. That’s your trouble. The same with that business over the cars — suggesting I was faking-up stolen vehicles.’
How he could think of side issues at a time like that...I was furious with him. ‘So who the hell d’you think’s been sending those threatening notes? She saw me getting closer and closer to the truth. Who tried to smash the evidence of the Escort’s repaired wing?’
‘This is a woman you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t let Angie hear you say things like that. Angie could climb a gate and swing a sledgehammer. Ask her. And it’s typical of a woman to bash me on the head with the lighter end of the thing.’
‘You don’t believe a word of it!’
‘No? But it must’ve been Lynne. She’s the one who’s been hiding the truth.’
‘In the mood you’re in...’
‘She threw herself off a balcony tonight, Phil. I’ll explain all that to Angie, if she wants to know, because I caused it. The rest, you can do. She’s your wife — you tell her about her father.’
‘I don’t like it. There ought to be other ways. Damn it, Harry, if I have to drag her home...’
‘You asked me to find out the truth.’
‘Not this truth, for God’s sake.’
‘How many d’you want? There’s only one truth.’
He drank up and we left. He followed my tail lights back to Viewlands.
Chapter Thirteen
All the lights were on in the house, like a distress signal. I parked in the drive, Phil behind me, because I wanted to use the front door bell with the hope of interrupting anything acrimonious that might be going on.
Angie answered the door. ‘Harry! Where have you been — and...it’s Phil...’
‘Has it been bad?’ I asked.
She shook her head numbly. Even when Phil took her hand and tried to kiss her she did not respond, merely lifted her cheek. Then she turned away, and we might not have been there. Phil glanced at me, and then it was clear what had happened.
Evan had given the news of Lynne’s death. But he hadn’t been able to give any reason for it. I could hear Rena’s voice biting through the woodwork.
‘...it’s not surprising — the poor young woman. How long was she working with that man? It’s enough to drive anybody crazy. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
I would have loved to. The opportunity was neatly presented, but I could not correct her without exposing the truth. She’d have revelled in it. I followed Angie into the room and tried to take it all in with one glance.
They were using the sitting room at the rear, Rena and Paul on the settee, sitting well apart, both holding glasses. Evan was leaning against a corner of the mantel. They had a wood fire going. Angie headed for the wing chair she’d been using, and sat, returning at once to her previous attitude, knees together, lips compressed, eyes glazed in the concentration of deliberate withdrawal. The fire was warm and cheerful, but made little impression on the atmosphere. Evan hadn’t managed to steer the subject away from Gledwyn. It had been asking too much of him.
‘Ah, Mrs Griffiths,’ I said. ‘How splendid to see you again. And Paul. You’re looking fit. I was sorry to hear that you missed out on the professorship.’
Evan was obviously keyed up. He’d spotted Phil in the doorway and tried desperately for a diversion. ‘Did you go for that, Paul? Oh dear — everybody knew Wright had got it. Months ago, we knew.’
Paul smiled thinly. Rena was staring round, eyebrows raised, eyes bulging, waiting to be introduced. Angie said, from a great distance: ‘T
his is Phil. My husband. Harry Kyle...you know.’ Animation was returning to her voice, colour to her cheeks.
Evan edged towards the door. Phil stood, uncertain. Something he’d not expected was a social interlude. He was unable to carry off the moment; his business was too urgent for chit-chat to intervene. The atmosphere was frigid, but Rena was quite impervious to it. I found a seat and pretended to be at my ease, trying to banish the recurring image of Lynne plunging from that balcony.
‘You’ll be going back to the States?’ I asked.
Paul waved his empty glass. ‘We’ll look around first.’
‘Professorships are probably thin on the ground.’
‘There’s always room for a good man,’ put in Rena.
‘Of course,’ I agreed.
Phil was signalling Angie with his eyes, but she ignored him. I clenched my fist over my pipe, clamped my teeth on the stem, and hung on.
‘I’d like to see him as a don at Oxford,’ Rena was saying, putting the emphasis on the second syllable. ‘But of course...’ A sneer crept in. ‘...they’d be very selective.’
‘American degrees,’ said Evan suddenly, ‘are much sought after in Oxford,’ probably with the intention of keeping them away from Aberystwyth.
‘In Wales,’ I explained, ‘they’re apt to burn down your house.’
‘What?’
‘Nationalists.’
Then Phil’s patience ran out. He advanced into the centre of the room, looked round, and said: ‘Well now, I guess that’s it. Sorry to hurry you off, Paul. And Rena. Things I want to say to my wife.’
Somehow I didn’t think that smile would have sold anybody a car. It froze Rena. She got to her feet.
Evan took it in his stride. He’d been aching for the excuse. ‘Well...fine. I was leaving, anyway. Goodnight all.’
He pushed past Phil, almost breaking into a run. Rena was gathering up her belongings, which seemed to have spread themselves around. Paul made clucking noises. Phil shuffled them out to the front door.
For a minute, perhaps two, I was alone with Angie. She was watching me with wide, staring eyes.
‘What is it, Harry?’
‘Something Phil’s got to tell you.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
I was wishing I hadn’t brought him back here. ‘It ought to come from him.’
She flapped her hands on her knees. ‘Is it about poor Lynne?’
‘No. That’s my bit. My fault. I pushed her too hard, not realising...’
‘Harry!’
‘Listen to Phil, Angie. Try to understand.’
That frightened her. She was half to her feet when the door opened and Phil returned. I grimaced at her. She looked from his face to mine as I backed off. I wondered whether I should be in the room at all, and tried to fade, finding a chair in the far corner.
‘Something that’s got to be said, Angie,’ he told her, and damn me if he hadn’t decided to be jovial about it.
Then he swung around one of the Queen Anne chairs and placed it down in front of her, like an inquisition, and sat with his back to me. Suited me fine — I was being excluded. But I could hear every word, and I could see her face, full on, every distress and agony clear-cut. I sat. My pipe was out and I didn’t dare flick my lighter, the silence was so expectant.
He started all right, all the correct words, talking like a kind old uncle, and almost as though he’d memorised what I’d told him. But the intonation in some way was a challenge, the emphasis was wrong, the pauses carried too much weight.
This he seemed to realise, and it annoyed him. Anger crept in, and uncertainty with it. He began to toss phrases at me, without turning his head.
‘Isn’t that right, Harry?’
And I’d grunt.
It wasn’t right. No part of it was right. When telling it to Phil I hadn’t been able to suppress a certain sympathy for Gledwyn, but to Phil it obviously seemed that it was Gledwyn’s fault that he was now in this awkward situation, appealing to Angie when he should simply be asserting his authority. So his attitude drifted towards impatience and anger. Perhaps her stony, unresponsive expression irked him. My original words gradually became more and more distorted.
Where I’d said, referring to Gledwyn’s attitude to Lynne, something like: ‘Suddenly he’d see how much he really needed her, not simply because of the speech, but perhaps just to talk to’, this came out as: ‘But the old fraud couldn’t manage without her. She’d been crawling after him for years, doing anything he wanted. So all right, he wanted a speech typing, and the stupid bitch had gone off home...’
‘Oh Christ, Phil,’ I whispered.
She could not have heard, but Angie threw me a flick of a glance, mute appeal. Help me, Harry. I felt sick, but I could do nothing. Phil was involved in a frantic effort to strike interest in her eyes.
I’d credited him with intelligence, but he was certainly bereft of imagination. Faced by her stunned lack of response, he bored in with more persistence, his voice rising. He knew he wasn’t getting through. Couldn’t she see what a hopeless failure her father had been?
He came to the part where Lynne must have walked up the drive and discovered Gledwyn looking at the repaired car with its green wing. Then, at last, imagination showed itself. He could not see behind Angie’s glazed eyes. His was not that sort of perception. He was simply carried away by his own words, shouting it as a challenge to her lack of response, and embroidering as he hotly threw the words at her.
‘You’re not trying to understand,’ he bellowed. ‘You’re just sitting there, telling yourself it’s not true. Lynne followed him up the drive. Don’t ya see it? Followed him, and caught the old bastard gloating over his handiwork. And she’d see straight away. A green wing on a red car! Ever heard anything so daft! Can’t you just see her, pointing at him, and saying, “So it was you, you creepy devil. Killed Carla, and tried to cover up.” She’d tell him. She’d see, however stubborn you want to be. He’d killed her friend, and left her to die. What sort of louse does that? Tell me. Say something, Angie, damn you...’
But I didn’t let him get any further. I was on my feet — couldn’t remember doing it — and pulled him round.
‘What the hell!’
‘That’s enough, Phil. It’s enough.’
I was trying to drag him to the door, he fighting me off with the ineffectual flappings men like him make, and I had a brief glimpse of Angie, on her feet, hands pressed to her face and the rest of her all frantic eyes. She was making weird keening noises behind her fingers.
Somehow I got him out into the hall and the door closed behind us. He was completely beyond self-control. It’s quite often the case with these controlled characters, who tailor their faces to the body of necessity. The effort to maintain the pose presses them to the limit, until a time comes when it all breaks apart.
I had to slap his face to bring him back to normality — or as close to it as I could expect. I was doing him a favour, if he’d only realised it. Apparently he didn’t. For one moment his face was rigid, nothing in it apart from the eyes, and from these only the most virulent hatred I’ve ever faced. Then it was gone. He shrugged his shoulders free. His teeth showed briefly.
‘Not now, Harry,’ he said quietly.
He opened the door into the long room and for a moment stood in the doorway. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he declared. ‘Three days. I’ll give you that to get things organised. Then I’ll send a couple of the men for you. Right?’
The fact that his voice was unemotional gave his words more emphasis. A pity he hadn’t used that technique before.
I watched him leave, and heard the tyres scrabble at the drive surface. Then I went back to Angie.
She sat, dry-eyed. She did not look at me. I circled her. I did not dare to say a word, and certainly dared not touch her. Physical contact would have dissolved her, and I could not have retrieved the same Angela. She had to make her way herself.
I sat in the same corner chair and lit my pip
e. Knocked it out when it was finished and re-charged it. You’re not supposed to do that. Let it cool, that’s the rule. Two pipes later I sensed a change in her, went into the kitchen and brewed tea, and returned with the tray. She watched me moving furniture about; the low, tiled-surface table to her knees, one of the other winged chairs from the wall to face her. I found her cigarette pack on the mantel and slapped it down in front of her, my lighter on top of it.
‘You told him that, Harry?’ she asked quietly.
‘Not in exactly the same words.’
She nodded. Her eyes met mine, and I’ll swear there was a smile in there somewhere. ‘Then can I have it in yours.’
I obliged. She listened intently, nodding occasionally. I covered the lot, including the facts that had led to Lynne’s death. She shook her head.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
‘No.’
Then there was a pause. She was looking beyond me, smoke round her head.
‘What did he mean, Harry, two men?’
‘To fetch you home.’
Her eyes sparked. ‘He can’t do that.’
I took that as a question. ‘It’s tricky, legally. Assault, I suppose, but it’d be domestic. The police wouldn’t dare to intervene — short of physical violence, I suppose.’
‘Police! I don’t need protection. I can look after myself.’
‘Of course you can.’
Soon after, she said she thought she’d get off to bed. I was hungry, and poached in her cupboards for the makings of cooked cheese on toast. Then I locked the side door and went out by way of the front. There’d be no more unlocked doors to that house.
In the morning I was sitting on the caravan steps, sneering at the gelding, when she came out to water him, or whatever she had to do. She paused in front of me.
‘You’ll be leaving?’ she asked.
‘It’s the end of September. Nowhere to go, really.’
Her eyes softened. ‘Till you make up your mind...you’re welcome, Harry.’
I waved a hand. ‘Thanks.’
A cold tap in the corner of the yard; an outside WC. What more can a man want?
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