Headcase

by Peter Helton

  I could hear Mike’s car revving away and got another bottle of Stella from the fridge. Annis popped first her head, then the rest of herself around the door jamb.

  “Is he gone? What did he want?”

  “He asked me about Gavin and Dave. Even though he could get much clearer answers from Gordon Hines. He has the medical details. Gave me a hard time about my gun. Again. And he wants me to sit on my hands and wait for him to find Jenny’s murderer. Fat chance. Even threatened to rip the house open to find my gun, which is really all he needs if he wants to shut us down.”

  “He’s right on that one, Chris. No, listen, listen. I think he secretly likes you but he also resents you. He thinks you’ve got it too easy. And even though he probably doesn’t for one moment believe you killed Jenny you’re on the prime suspect list until her killer is found. After all, six out of ten people who report a murder turn out to be responsible for that killing, you know that.”

  I did. But how did Annis know that? I widened my eyes at her.

  “I read in bed, all right? That okay with you? Anyway,” she said, shovelling coffee beans into the electric grinder, “you two are in some sort of blokey competition, aren’t you? Except that Needham thinks you’re winning and you’re winning because we bend the rules a little here and there.” She flicked on the noisy grinder with a gleeful grin, nodded away the precise seconds of enervating noise required to produce the Annis-approved fineness of ground Kenyan. “He doesn’t see that we’ve got rules too, different ones, admittedly. Stringent rules, a code of ethics. And we stick to them.”

  “Above all Mike hates the fact that we made those rules for ourselves while his are imposed on him. He only embraces police rules with such fervour so that he doesn’t need to feel resentful,” I said, pouring some Stella on to my own resentment.

  Annis splashed boiling water into the cafetiere. “If we go after Jenny’s killer, and I know you want to, it could jeopardize a conviction. Evidence has to be obtained in the correct way, not the way we usually go about it,” Annis said firmly and pressed the plunger.

  She really had been reading in bed. Was she tired of the way we did things at Aqua? I couldn’t quite picture Annis in police uniform. “You think I should sit on my hands, too?”

  “What would you do, Chris, if you found Jenny’s killer? Be honest.”

  “I’d hand him over to the police.”

  “And if you knew they couldn’t get a conviction because of some procedural mistake, some technicality?”

  “I’d kill him.” I hadn’t thought about what I was saying, it just came out like that. I’d shoot him. It was the honest answer.

  “And I knew that too,” Annis said quietly.

  We’ve always avoided hugging. It’s one of the things that helps us to live at Mill House the way we do, one tiny part of the complicated dance we perform around each other, which we invented so that we don’t end up in the same bed at night.

  She gave me a shove instead. Not very hard but not entirely playful either. While I recovered my balance she emptied my Stella down the sink without comment. “Now look at this.” She uncrumpled a letter from her back pocket, folded half of it over. “What do you think? It’s from Alison. Came yesterday.”

  “Your friend? The Cornish painter?”

  “She’s not Cornish. But she inherited half a cottage in Cornwall and moved there a year or so after leaving art college. She was in the year above me.”

  I read.

  …even though I’ve been here quite a while now. Weird things keep happening, which freaks me out. I like living by myself but the other day I thought I was being followed. Now I constantly feel watched. I get spooked sometimes, even though Mousehole is only a few minutes’ drive away. Perhaps it’s the solitude getting to me. I can’t even think of giving up the cottage, I worked so hard to afford it, you have no idea how hard. It was kind of you to invite me up only I can’t really get away right now. Of course you’re always welcome to stay for a while. I know you’re busy though, with painting and Aqua…

  I handed the letter back. “She wants you to come and hold her hand for a bit but doesn’t know how to ask.”

  “My feeling exactly. So we’ll go. Get you away from here. If you feel as shit as you look then you deserve a couple of days off,” she said firmly.

  “I’ve got the Dufossee thing to take care of.”

  “Let Tim have a shot.”

  “And Mr Turner.”

  “Ditto. You’ll really enjoy it, I guarantee. All that seafood, and her cottage is in a stunning location.”

  Location. “Shit. Location finder! I’m supposed to be meeting Gill for lunch. In about ten minutes.”

  “Where?”

  “The Bathtub.”

  “Then you’d better get a move on.”

  I got a move on. Weaving through side streets, then cutting across to the toll bridge, through Bathampton, choked with escapees from the city, down the Warminster Road. Why didn’t I ring to say I was going to be a little late? Traffic was as insane as ever. I dumped the DS behind the Holburne Museum and legged it the rest of the way down Great Pulteney Street. I was still hideously late when I puffed into the little restaurant in Grove Street.

  I’ve always liked the Bathtub, not just for its extremely edible food but also for the tucked-out-of-the-way atmosphere it manages to maintain, even though its premises are right in the centre of town. I often meet clients here, it’s a good place to talk.

  It only took one look to see that Gill wasn’t there. “That’s unlike you, Chris,” said Clive, who owns the place, when I made imploring gestures at him. “The lady regretted she had to go. But all is not lost, she left you this.” He handed me a Fuji print envelope and a folded note. Gill had another appointment too close to our lunch meeting and was leaving Bath later today. But she thought I might like to have prints of the pictures she took at Mill House. I felt surprisingly relieved. Whatever had triggered the impulsive lunch invitation to Gill had been expunged by Jenny’s murder. Right now I was grateful that I didn’t have to put a brave face on things or explain what had happened. Fortunately, with Clive I never had to explain.

  “You look like shit, Chris,” he said delicately as he shoved a Stella at me across the tiny bar. “Are you eating or can I give your table away? We’re busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Might as well. “Do you still do those scallops in garlic butter?”

  “Anything for the Great Detective.”

  Annis had been right, I wasn’t firing on all cylinders and needed to get away from Bath. Just thinking about what to do next seemed difficult. Physically doing what needed to be done seemed even harder. In my attic office at Mill House I found myself staring at the mess on the desk, at the silent phone, the pristine grey and blue of the computer screen, and felt dull and stupid. As soon as I reached for the receiver or stretched my hands towards the keyboard I was assailed by doubts. Was this the right thing to do? What if I did something wrong? Was I forgetting something important, did I remember things right, the conversations I had had, the conclusions I had drawn? Had I drawn conclusions?

  Each time I stirred into action the same image flashed into my mind. Jenny, her twisted shape on the carpet, her face destroyed by many vicious blows, her hair caked with blood. The metallic smell of blood invaded my nostrils. My hands had developed a fine tremor, hovering over objects before grasping them. My mind appeared to be doing the same, fluttering, hovering, reluctant to grasp on to concrete thoughts.

  Concentrate. I dialled the number for Mrs Ibbs, Starfall’s holidaying housekeeper, was relieved when there was no answer. Get a grip. E-mails came easier. I mailed Tim and brought him up-to-date with the Turner case, such as it was; told him to keep an eye on the man without expanding too much energy on it and instructed him to place a half-page advertisement in the Antiques Trade Gazette in the Stolen Section, then faxed him the details and photographs. Keep it together. Found the website and put the stolen Dufossee paintings on the A
rt Loss Register, which every reputable dealer would consult if he was offered paintings with a less than perfect provenance and documentation. This was a pretty public way of going about it but I was banking on Mr Dufossee senior being too busy meditating to read the Antiques Gazette or surf the net.

  Annis had packed my bags as well as her own and shoved me downstairs and into the driver’s seat of the DS. She loves her thirty-year-old Land Rover but quite apart from the fact that it’s permanently stuck in four-wheel-drive my equally ancient Citroen beats it at long distance comfort without even trying. The CD player I had installed might offend classic car purists but I was glad for the supply of soothing Fugazi tracks — I find Fugazi soothing, okay? — that Annis craftily fed into it.

  No amount of guitar play however could gloss over the fact that I was in trouble. Driving suddenly scared me. Witless. As soon as I hit the M5 I felt we were doomed. While I crawled along at 50 mph huge container lorries, loath to shift through endless gears to accommodate my geriatric style, loomed improbably large in my mirrors. Everything seemed to happen at a phenomenally threatening pace, everything felt dangerous. Sweat erupted from every pore of my body, trickled down my spine, stung in my eyes. My hands were in danger of slipping on the wheel. I wound down the window. The roar of air rushing in only helped to emphasize the speed with which I was hurtling towards sure destruction, inevitable doom. My stomach began to revolt, my bowels were not far behind.

  “Pull over. Hard shoulder. Pull over when the coach has passed us,” Annis said, laying a rare hand on my buzzing arm. A National Express coach slammed past, I winced in the turbulence of its bulk. When I checked the speedometer I found the indicator fretting at 40. It took me another shaky mile or so before I unfroze enough to make the manoeuvre and brake ineptly on the hard shoulder, near an orange emergency phone. I wanted to run to it and call for help, any kind of help. Someone help me.

  “Well done, Chris.” Annis didn’t ask, she told. “Get in the back seat and lie down. I’ll get you there. Just have a lie-down while I drive.”

  It’s a left-hand drive so while Annis slipped behind the wheel I managed to squeeze out on the near side and fumbled into the back.

  “Close your eyes, Honey sett. We’re off on a holiday. Can I change the music?”

  “Help yourself.” The first thing that came up on the radio was Kate Bush, The Red Shoes. Perfect. By now I was wearing them.

  I woke up as abruptly as I must have fallen asleep, surfaced from apparently dreamless oblivion into a moment of disorientation and vague dread.

  “Welcome back,” Annis said as I pulled myself into a sitting position. “That was Tredannik.”

  “What was?”

  “The village we just went through.”

  “So we’re nearly there?”

  “Mm-hm. You were out for hours. How are things inside Chris Honeysett?”

  “Fine.” And I meant it. I felt safe and cosy here on the back seat, with Annis competently swinging the DS between the hedgerows on the steadily rising narrow lane. I wound down the rear window and stuck my nose out to smell the Cornish summer. It smelled entirely different from the valley, clearer, sharper, somehow. “I’m sorry I lost it back there. Everything seemed impossible suddenly. Can’t explain it.”

  “No need to apologize, though you did scare the hell out of me. I think that might have been your brain telling you to give it a rest after the shock you had. And that’s what we’re here for. The Resting of Honeysett. Right, get ready for the view, coming up…now.”

  As we reached a broken gate at a narrow turn-off and the lane and hedgerows fell away to the left the view opened out ahead and to the right. The track-it wasn’t much more than that-dipped briefly, then rose again in a gentle curve up to a large but squat cottage, solitary and exposed on the cliff top. From the lane it had been utterly invisible.

  I stretched luxuriously and shrugged off the journey in the few seconds it took to fill my lungs with the ozone-laced air. A ragged cluster of rocks a quarter of a mile out to sea was the only real feature in the expanse of ultramarine and silver below. Here the coast turned sharply back on itself to either side so that, apart from a similarly barren point far away to the south on my right, I could entertain the notion of riding in the prow of an enormous and very solid ship.

  But it was far from shipshape. Back in the valley we like to pretend that the slight air of dilapidation, mainly in the outbuildings, gives Mill House a certain out-of-time charm that adds to its hideaway character. This place was a shambles. Annis had parked the DS on the grass, since the only clear space near the house which wasn’t cluttered by some kind of junk was occupied by a battered off-white VW Beetle, which clearly aspired to junk status itself. The front of the house, sensibly facing out of the wind, could only be approached through a minefield of wooden crates, broken white goods and half-used building materials. Some of the roof-slates had slipped or were missing. Annis’s head-scratching and disappearing eyebrows meant this wasn’t what she had expected either. She led me around the back. There a beautifully old-fashioned conservatory in the twilight years of its existence served as a painting studio, surrounded by the type of painting detritus I recognized and approved of: buckets, cans and jars, discarded canvases weighed down with rocks, broken stretchers and frames.

  Alison caught sight of movement in the corner of her eyes, jumped clear of her easel and through the open door leading back into the house. As soon as she recognized Annis she re-emerged, making apologetic gestures. Come in, come in.

  “You gave me such a fright, I didn’t hear your car or anything.” Alison wiped her hands on her spattered painting shirt, then the legs of her jeans, and awkwardly pushed her dark, tired hair off her face. Her welcoming smile did nothing to eradicate the expression of sheer terror I had seen on her face when at first she fled from us into the house. She gave Annis a prolonged hug while I discreetly checked out the painting on the easel. A sombre Cornish landscape, a storm brewing on the horizon. Very assured, extremely competent. Before I could work out what bugged me about it my attention was claimed by the how-do-you-dos.

  Introductions over, Alison ushered us nervously inside, through a crowded and surprisingly dark sitting room into which drawings, paintings and art materials had spilled, along a short corridor with worn floor tiles and into the large stone-flagged kitchen. It was an evil-smelling extension of the junkyard in the front. Alison’s narrow frame appeared to be fluttering, along with her voice, while she filled the whistling-kettle at the overcrowded sink. She flustered about for matches, found only spent ones. I produced my lighter and took the kettle from her. There was no telling what would light first, the lazily hissing gas or the encrustation of fat on the cooker.

  “Oh God, I know what you must be thinking, I really meant to clear all this up before you arrived.” She waved a tremulous hand at the mouldy dishes, festering bin, scrap-littered surfaces and the astonishing amount of empty wine and beer bottles in every corner. Her voice shook. “I’m, I’ve…been struggling a bit.”

  The place gave the impression that she had stopped struggling quite a while ago. I got the gas to light without setting fire to anything else. “Don’t worry, between the three of us we’ll have this kitchen sorted in no time at all/ I said with as much cheer in my voice as I could muster.

  The chaos was sharply familiar, a fair reproduction of the kitchen my father left behind when he killed himself. Although I was in Istanbul when a British Embassy official informed me of what had happened I managed to arrive at Mill House before anyone had thought of tackling the mess in the house. The smell of furry dishes, month-old garbage and stagnant dishwater I rediscovered in Alison’s kitchen was one I have always equated with desperation, with losing the fight. Yet the fact that she was still painting surely meant not all was lost. What had Needham said about playing at being a sodding psychiatrist?

  The kitchen eventually yielded three damp-stained tea-bags and after I’d been warned against opening the fridge we
had black tea, Turkish style in water glasses, on the wind-snatched patch of grass in front of the conservatory. In the protective halfcircle of Annis’s arm around her bony shoulder, Alison finally stopped apologizing.

  “I don’t sleep properly. And ever since that bastard forced me off the road I’ve been stuck here, more or less. I mean I can walk into Tredannik but there’s nothing there really, even the sodding post office has shut down.”

  “Someone forced you off the road? How? When?” My own driving terror came buzzing back.

  “A few days ago. Monday? My new Peugeot 106, too, practically written off. I’m lucky I didn’t go over the cliff, it was that close.”

  “You think it was deliberate? What did the police have to say?”

  Annis shot me a don’t-interrogate-her glance but Alison didn’t seem to mind.

  “Either he was pissed as a fart and didn’t want to lose his licence or he actually tried to run me over that cliff. Oh, what am I saying, I’m getting so paranoid. It was pitch dark, after midnight. Came out of nowhere, I swear. Suddenly I had nothing but dazzle in my mirrors and then, wham! Some kind of delivery van, big thing. I didn’t report it until well into the next day because I was way over the limit myself.” She pulled a pained face. “Literally drinking and driving, with a bottle of Merlot between my legs. I know, I know, it was stupid and irresponsible but it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “Were you hurt?” I asked, trying to hide my useless disapproval behind concern.

  Lifting a handful of lank hair she revealed a scabbed scar high on her temple. “I banged my head on the door, got winded and threw up all over the dashboard but that was it.

  Then I was too scared to move for ages. I could hear the sodding sea below me. When I got back to the car the next day I really freaked, it was so close to the edge. The towtruck people were shit-scared of going near it, said it might go any second.”