by Peter Helton
“Are you in trouble, sweetie?” Annis managed to ask the obvious question that had hovered over us ever since we arrived.
Alison responded by shrugging off the protective arm and got up, smiling a bright forced smile. “I’m all right now you’re here. But there’s nothing to eat in the house, so we’d better go out somewhere for our tea. There’s the Loaves and Fishes in Mouse-hole, that’s pretty good.” She gave me a conspiratorial look. “Annis told me you need regular injections of fish or you get grouchy.” Somehow the thought of getting back into the car and of later returning from a restaurant meal to the chaos of the cottage felt like a recipe for gloom. “I’ve a better idea. You two go off and go shopping while I blitz the kitchen and we’ll have supper here.”
The two of them looked at each other, then at me, said “Okay” in unison and legged it out of there.
“What have I done?” I asked the kitchen, once the sound of the car engine had faded. What I really needed to clear this properly was a stick of dynamite and a shovel but I made do with what I could find.
The amount of empties was truly staggering — all of it red, mostly French and expensive. I approved. The beer bottles were all large, Czech and, as far as pilsner goes, pretty posh too. Alison was going down with a certain amount of style. I stacked the lot of them in crates and boxes in the junkyard at the front of the house. In the absence of bin liners her large and varied collection of carrier bags had to do. I dived in, scooped, stuffed, shoved and scraped. The appliances, though covered with historical layers of gunge, were fairly new, hence the old white goods in the junkyard. The fridge was the saddest place I had visited in a while, and that included a council estate north of Bristol. Only a field archaeologist could have done it full justice. I decided to junk the lot: milk turned to a solid piece of cheese, cheese turned to a solid piece of mould, open tins of botulism and blobs of unknown origin and purpose. Alison appeared to have taken the principle of self-cleaning oven quite literally, too. I soaked, chiselled, scoured and scrubbed, then washed, wiped and Window-leened. At the end I poured a vintage bottle of bleach over the last pockets of resistance, swept and mopped the floor and retreated from the ensuing fumes into the sitting room. During my cleaning blitz I had removed the remnants of meals and mouldy piles of teabags from the ashtrays here and filled several bags with garbage. Now I just cleared a space among the books on the sofa and folded myself wearily into one corner, convinced that I had done my good deed for the day.
What exactly was happening here? It seemed obvious that Alison was in some kind of trouble. But was it anything more than a bit of paranoia brought on by a lonely and highly alcoholic lifestyle? I hoped that in my absence Alison would open up to Annis and feared that, apart from being a damn good cleaner, I was probably surplus to requirements here.
The sound of the sea, some eighty feet below, was faint but ever present. The late afternoon light slanting through the conservatory door created sharp shadows inside the room. Suddenly the shadows faded, the room fell into gloomy dusk. I turned, unsure of what had created the sudden shift in the light. A solid bank of dark cloud was pushing in from the sea, the weather was turning, gardeners were rejoicing. Abruptly the wind picked up. I unfolded myself from the sofa and tried the glass door to the conservatory. It was locked and there was no key. That meant Alison locked it before she went off with Annis, which for a moment made me scratch my head but then it might just have been part of her routine when leaving the house. Peering around the corner I could see that all the paintings were turned to the wall except for the one on show on top of the easel. The darkness of the picture seemed to echo the rainstorm that relentlessly approached outside. At first glance I had assumed it was a painting Alison was just finishing but looking at it again I realized what had first bugged me about it. The fresh-looking paint on her palette, chrome yellow, emerald green and a range of reds, didn’t tally with the colours of the landscape painting on the easel. She had to be working on something far sunnier than this. So she was looking at an older painting, so what? Perhaps her work wasn’t going too well and the painting, which was certainly accomplished, represented a kind of touchstone for her. With satisfaction I noted that Alison, like myself, preferred an old-fashioned type of oil paint. Some of the paints I saw lying around in tubes or ranged about the easel in glass jars were of the finest handmade quality. I was just telling myself to give the detective’s brain a rest from idle speculation when Annis and Alison tumbled through the front door, laden with shopping. Alison made the appropriate noises of appreciation for my handiwork in the kitchen.
“Okay, Chris, you can stay,” she said, and that out of the way we all fell on the shopping bags, and got the oven and kettle going.
Alison was in better spirits, suggesting countless places we just had to visit together, walks we simply couldn’t miss. Despite the darkening skies outside it felt like a new beginning in here and by the time I whipped the sea bream out of the oven and the cork had popped on the Sancerre my brain was pleasantly idling in neutral.
I woke parched from desert dreams in my cramped camp on the sofa — I had drawn a very short straw when beds were raffled — and took my time unfolding brain and body. The wind was still tearing at the house but judging by the weak moonlight in the windows the storm clouds had passed. The storm had lasted a few wild hours. In the end we had toasted each thunderclap at the kitchen table until the last bottle was finished.
Half past three. Dead of night. Still a little unsteady from my fair share of five bottles of wine I padded over the pleasantly cool floor to the kitchen sink and gulped down a couple of tumblerfuls of water. I filled another one to take back to camp and turned my back on the window over the sink. A movement in the corner of my eye made me wheel around and spill water over my bare feet. Nothing. It’s nothing. Just moon-shadows. Then why did my spine continue to tingle and my heart continue to pound? I topped up the glass from the tap and carefully peered out into the small stretch of cliff-top meadow I could make out by the side of the house. Still nothing. So get a grip. Annoyed with myself for being so jumpy I padded back towards my lair and froze by the door. Something. A small nasty tearing sound I couldn’t at first place came from the conservatory. A solid black shadow not made from clouds crouched beyond the outside door. Someone. Then I recognized the tearing sound. Glass cutter. Whoever was out there would very soon be inside the studio and not long after that in the house, if that was where they wanted to be. But the locked connecting door, though entirely made from glass, would buy me time. I gulped the water, left the tumbler on the floor, tiptoed back through the hall and squeezed quietly out of the front door. The night air was cool and I was suddenly wide awake. Still drunk but wide awake. A slender moon rode high through scudding clouds on my left so I turned right, just as our visitor had done when he slipped past the kitchen window a moment ago. Carefully I threaded through the debris of the yard, armed myself in passing with a piece of copper piping. It wasn’t much of a weapon but went some way towards compensating for the fact that I didn’t have my gun to hand. In this situation I felt naked without it. The fact that I wasn’t wearing any clothes at all didn’t help much either. As I shivered closer to the seaward corner of the house I was struck by my lack of planning. Was I really attempting to apprehend a burglar in the nude, armed with a one-foot piece of copper piping? For a moment I was tempted to return inside, hit the lights and simply scare him off but by that time my dark visitor might already have got whatever he came for. I took a deep breath and peered around the corner. The dark shape moved about inside the studio, directing the torch beam here and there as he moved from painting to painting. Another art thief. Didn’t anyone pay for paintings anymore? I crouched low and crept closer. My mind still refused to furnish me with even a half-decent plan of action but somehow I intended to teach the man the current market value of Cornish painting.
Picking my way through the clutter along the glass front was slow work, too slow. The dark figure had completed his ins
pection along one wall and moved to the next batch just as I reached the open half of the double door. As he became aware of me he wheeled around and stopped dead, but just for a split second. Then he pointed the torch straight at my face. Just before the dazzle hit my eyes I could make out the bright shimmer in the eye holes of his balaclava. As I straightened up his boot found my face. I toppled back into a nest of glass jars, several of which shattered under my back. My assailant used the few seconds it took me to struggle up out of the shards of broken glass to put about twenty feet between us. I could taste blood in my mouth and my teeth felt a bit on the shaky side. Anger propelled me forwards. I lifted the copper pipe and advanced until his torch flicked on again. This time he pointed it not at me but at his own left hand. He was far more sensibly armed than myself, which was what he was showing me. His left hand held a shiny machete. He wasn’t even threatening me with it, merely showing it to me, holding it vertically with his outstretched arm, like an archaic warning. Then the beam flicked off. He turned his back on me and walked away, quickly but confidently, just as the lights snapped on inside the house and footsteps rattled on the stairs.
Seconds later, while I felt for loose teeth with one hand and gingerly probed my behind for splinters with the other, Annis came flying around the corner swinging a piece of two-by-one which she dropped when she recognized my rattling frame. I was shivering uncontrollably by now.
“What’s up? Sleepwalking?” she wanted to know.
“Scaring off a burglar. Only he wasn’t that scared.”
“Naked men are rarely scary. You’re certainly not,” she said. Unkindly, I thought. “Let’s get you inside and have a look at you.”
Annis had managed to jump into jeans and a T-shirt at least and Alison, who was waiting for us inside in a classic rolling-pin-at-the-ready pose, had managed a dark blue bathrobe. Naked and dribbling blood from each end I felt more than a bit foolish. At least I got a little more sympathy once the extent of the damage was revealed in the light. What it really amounted to was a bleeding nose and a split lip and eyebrow. The more painful item was my lacerated backside. Lying on the sofa with my bum in the air I gave an account of events while Annis dabbed away with cotton wool and iodine and Alison sucked air through her teeth in empathy with my behind.
“He went through your paintings,” I informed her, “but as far as I can tell he left empty-handed.”
Alison seemed a little shaken by the event but curiously unconcerned about her paintings. She didn’t make any move to check out her studio to see whether or not I was right. “Did you see his face?” was what she wanted to know.
“Balaclava. Quite the commando raider, in fact. Have you called the police yet?”
“What’s the point?” Alison shrugged impatiently. “Nothing nicked, no evidence except a hole in the glass and no description? All I get is another lecture by the local plod about security and how I’m asking for it living alone in an isolated spot like this. Had it before, don’t need it again.”
“You had a break-in before?”
“No. Just prowlers. Someone trying the doors. Falling over stuff in the yard. I called the police a couple of times. They took twenty minutes to get here and did sod all. Coffee, anyone?”
No wonder she felt happier with us around.
“Did she give you a clue what all this might be about?” I asked Annis while Alison was busy in the kitchen.
“No, not a word. I tried to get at least a hint but she said it was probably nothing. Changed the subject pronto each time. She’s scared though. I think we should stay a while, see if we can’t sort it out somehow. She might open up eventually.”
“Did she talk about her work at all? That landscape on the easel…”
“That’s an old one, I’ve seen it before. No, that’s the other odd thing. Normally she’d drag out every canvas and ask my opinion, talk about it incessantly, but she was positively secretive about her work today. First I thought she was a bit overawed at having you here, you’re quite a name now, you know? But it’s not that. She said she hadn’t done anything for a while yet I can smell she’s been painting.”
“There’s freshly used paint on her palette, lots of used brushes in that turps jar. She’s been painting all right. But what? And our visitor was definitely after paintings only he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Quite ferociously armed as well.”
“He was armed?”
I hadn’t mentioned this before so as not to alarm Alison any further. “Machete.”
“Did he…”
“No, he just showed it to me, as in “Don’t follow me, mate.” I took the hint.”
“I’m glad. But this is serious, Chris. Your average burglar doesn’t come armed with long knives unless he expects resistance or wants to ask pertinent questions about the whereabouts of the family silver. This wasn’t a spontaneous visit. He was after something specific. He must have seen your car but he didn’t want to postpone his break-in. Pretty determined, if you ask me.”
“Ask you what?” Alison returned with a tray of coffees.
I decided to try the blunt approach. “What are they after, Alison? Your prowlers and burglars. I’m sure you know. Only we can’t help you if you don’t tell us. And we can’t stay here forever.”
Alison set down the tray harder than she had intended, rocking the mugs. “They’re after paintings, I guess.” She shrugged. “Only this one doesn’t seem to like my work. I’m not going to have coffee after all, I think I’ll try and get some more sleep instead. Laters.”
So much for the blunt approach.
When I woke again it was to the electronic warbling of the telephone. It took me a while to prise my eyes open and become aware of Alison, her arms folded in front of her, staring at the phone with dread in her eyes, letting it ring and ring.
“You want me to answer that?” I offered, as much to save my hung-over head as from any desire to be helpful.
“Would you? I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
I hobbled across with my duvet around me and picked up the receiver, watched by Alison with a worried frown.
“About time. That you, Honeysett?” Detective Superintendent Needham sounded as rough as I felt. I mouthed “It’s for me” to Alison who smiled her relief.
“We found Dave,” Needham bellowed, managing to make it sound like “You are surrounded.”
“Now get your scrawny arse back to Bath and be quick about it. If you’re not here in three hours I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest. And I might still do it then. That clear?”
“Engraved on my mind. Where did you find Dave?”
“In the canal,” said Needham and slammed the phone down.
I suddenly felt very tired again. Jenny dead, now Dave. One death was tragic, two were sinister. Unless it turned out to be suicide.
“You didn’t want to answer the phone just now. How come?”
Alison shook her head. “Some weird phone calls, that’s all.”
“What, heavy breathing? Threats?”
She turned her back on me and walked across to the window, stared out over the sea, her arms still defensively folded. But she didn’t elaborate.
I scrambled into my clothes, gingerly easing my jeans over said scrawny behind.
“You could use an answerphone,” I suggested. “Or, failing that, record your conversations. The police can tell a lot from a tape if you ever decide to call them about it. It would give them a head start. Here, I’ll leave you my dictaphone, it’s perfect for that.” I set the little gadget by the phone and checked into the kitchen for some breakfast. Annis was already on the case, squeezing juice and warming bagels under the grill.
“That was Needham. He wants me back in Bath. Dave is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“They fished him out of the Kennet-and-Avon canal, that’s all he said. Threatened to arrest me if I didn’t show my face pronto.”
“If Dave was also murdered that’ll nudge you back up the suspect list
,” Annis said helpfully and pushed a plate of bagels, cream cheese and cucumber in front of me. “How’re you feeling this morning?”
I tried my first experimental sit-down since last night and nearly shot up again. “Not so bad. And you?”
“Rough as a bird’s arse,” she assured me with a smile. Just to make me feel better. She looked as fresh as a daisy.
We decided that Annis couldn’t possibly leave Alison alone. Ten minutes later my bag was in the boot of the car and I cautiously eased myself into the driver’s seat.
“Will you be all right driving? And I don’t mean your posterior.”
“I’ll stay off the motorway and I should be fine. More importantly, are you two going to be all right here? I’d be happier if you took my gun.”
“You’ve got it here? I thought it was hidden at Mill House.”
I reached under the dashboard where Tim had constructed a neat gun holder for me, and handed her the revolver.
“Cheers, Chris, it might come in handy.”
“If you do have to use it hold tight, it’s got quite a kick on it. Oh, and after you’ve fired it don’t stick it in your waistband or anything like that. It gets bloody hot.”
“Silly me, and I thought that was an appendix scar.”
“Well, it ain’t,” I said, remembering the painful episode without relish. I knew Annis was more than capable of defending the cottage against all comers, especially with a noisy Webley .38 to back her up. What I didn’t know was that soon I would wish I had Annis — and the gun — with me in Bath.
With a Bartok concerto on the radio to keep me sharp and the pain in my behind keeping my mind from wandering far I drove fast and made it to Bath with time to spare. Not that I had taken Mike’s threat all that seriously. What really spurred me on was the uncomfortable feeling that all manner of things had been happening while my back was turned. I don’t like playing catch-up.
