Headcase

by Peter Helton

  “Too small for what? I don’t care what size they are as long as they’re pointing at me.”

  “That’s very shelfish of you.”

  “As in prawns and scallops?”

  “As in ever so slightly shnuzzled.”

  We were on our third refill of hot water and in serious danger of prunification. “You haven’t answered my question.” I really needed to know. Our unexpected, if slightly disabled lovemaking had unnerved me. It altered everything. It interrupted the careful dance we had been engaged in for so long. Annis had changed the music without consulting me. Mind you, I hadn’t put up much of a fight when she walked naked into the bathroom and told me to “shove up”.

  “Because I don’t want to spoil it by analysing it. We were bound to do it sooner or later and I thought this was a good moment.”

  “It was an excellent moment,” I admitted.

  “So leave it alone. You’re already thinking about later, about tomorrow.”

  “Could be.”

  “Well don’t, all right? If you’re thinking about tomorrow that means the moment is already over.” She got up and stepped out of the tub, leaving my bruised and now half-shrivelled body in six inches of soapy water. “In fact, forget all about it.” She struggled into her bathrobe without bothering to dry off. “I did it because I felt like it, okay? And I’m glad I did.”

  “And do you think you might ever feel like it again?” Sometimes I really can’t help myself.

  “Not if you keep going on about it, that’s for sure.”

  My room was in shadow but bright sunshine burned through the cracks of the four-leafed shutters like a medieval cross of fire. Never mind body-clocks, my stomach knew the instant I woke up that it was lunchtime and said so. The rest of me was quite content to just lie there. Judging from the burning sensation down the left side of my chest, anything but lying down would involve pain. My head felt better — though I hadn’t tried moving it yet — but my side felt, if anything, worse. Had I not discharged myself I could still be lying snugly in hospital of course, having food brought to me at half-decent intervals, doing very little. Only in my experience no one lets you sleep in hospital after six in the morning. Now my bladder started taking sides with my stomach, which settled the argument. One piece of vitreous china being as good as the next I bypassed the toilet altogether and headed straight for the shower.

  Upstairs I could hear the faint bleeping of my office answerphone, always a source of vague guilt but impossible to face without coffee; downstairs a small sheaf of letters on the little Moroccan table in the hall. A cheque from a satisfied client, not before time either, and a couple of bills which, together with the Inland Revenue, would cancel out the cheque completely. Win some, lose some. All doors were closed despite the heat so probably no Annis. A quick peek into the yard confirmed it, her antique Land Rover was gone. Which was just as well. I had fallen unconscious soon after last night’s triple bath-time and needed some time to think about it properly. Either that or forget all about it. Some hope. I stuck Nirvana on the stereo to clear my head and investigated the breakfast opportunities. Not only did it turn out that I was still incapable of wielding a griddle pan without my left elbow screaming abuse, there was also nothing in the fridge worth frying. So better make it lunch. My stomach growled all the way to the Bathtub.

  “How’s the Great Detective?” Clive said by way of hello. “Stella?”

  “Not so great and I haven’t had breakfast yet, so no to the Stella.”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “You sound like my mother, it’s most unbecoming. Give me some lamb rissoles with lots of sweet chilli sauce, orange juice and all the coffee you can carry.”

  “And a Stella?”

  “And a Stella. I hear alcohol is a great painkiller.”

  Half an hour later I felt, if not positively, at least possibly human. I took stock. The Existential Fear Factor had gone down considerably (because I had too much to worry about to worry about it), the General Decrepitude Index was rather high (my ribs still ached when I moved too quickly) and my Accumulated Guilt Quotient was rampant: I had to admit I was floundering in suppositions and mere guesses. I was nowhere nearer finding Jenny’s killer, though I had all but eliminated one suspect (Matt); I had searched a warehouse and found nothing (apart from intense hostility); I’d got laid in the bath by a woman half my age and then spoilt it by asking stupid questions; I hadn’t set foot in my studio for days for fear of what I might find on the easel and the MOT on my DS had run out. Enough to be getting on with.

  Clive came to clear the plates away. “Did you ever catch up with the lady you were supposed to meet in here?”

  “I didn’t. That’s a good point though, perhaps it’s time I did.”

  “Then I’d do something about your hair first. Looks like you shared a hole with a vicious rodent.”

  I turned out the pockets of my jeans. Not exactly marbles and bits of string but enough rubbish to make me feel lighter. Notes to myself (since my dictaphone was in Cornwall), letters, my Maglite, petrol receipts I was meant to file for my tax return, my Zippo, which I intend to buy flints for one day, and finally Gill’s BBC business card: Gillian Pine, Location Finder. I dug out my mobile from where it had disappeared into the lining of my leather jacket and dialled. If she hadn’t noticed the mix-up over the negatives I would start by suggesting a meeting. No use spooking people on the phone, they can simply hang up on you. The number you have dialled has not been recognized. I dialled more carefully but got the same result. Directory Enquiries furnished me with the number of Broadcasting House in London. After being shunted about for a bit they set me straight.

  Not only did they have no Gillian Pine on their payroll, full, part-time, freelance or otherwise but, “There is no such job description, really. Yes, production teams have so-called location finders but it isn’t a job as such. We use agencies who have properties we can use on their books. And certainly no one goes out looking for picturesque locations in the vague hope of filming them one day, it’s always very specific. We don’t send people out with BBC business cards knocking on people’s doors. I think you’ve been conned, Mr Honeysett. I suggest you contact the police.”

  I said I would and knew I wouldn’t. Not yet, anyhow. So Gill was a fraud. What a shame, I had instantly taken to her vivacity, had enjoyed the elaborate stories of her adventures scouring the planet for the BBC. She had definitely travelled, only in a different capacity, it appeared. I wondered if she really had a young son at home, wherever home was, or if it was part of her cover story, making her seem more real. Only what was she after? If she had pretended to be from an agency she could have conned people out of a registration fee. But she didn’t. There was a simple explanation — she was casing well-appointed houses for burglaries. The BBC is interested in our house, darling. Flattered home owners invited her inside, let her take photographs, showing off their possessions. Only at Starfall House she had run into our Saudi prince who banks with Sainsbury’s and a man with dubious jewellery. And they hadn’t liked that much. Since the negatives had found their way to me she had obviously got away from them. The way my ribcage felt that was just as well for her. I had little doubt about who had clobbered me. Yet instead of flooring the accelerator of her little Punto until Bath was a speck in her mirrors she had come here to keep our rendezvous at the Bathtub and leave the photographs for me. Perhaps she didn’t scare easily. I thought of Matt, hopefully keeping his ear to the ground, of Lisa, staying away from her flat in Odd Down, of Gavin, alive or dead somewhere in the city, without medication. What had Anne said? Wild. Mr Turner, the estate agent who liked to walk by the canal, was out there too, and an irate art collector who hung around Starfall House where an armful of nudes had disappeared without a break-in. Virginia Dufossee, on behalf of her father, concerned lest the police might get involved, her black-eyed brother with his warehouse full of shadows and no burglar alarm. Had I left anything out? Jenny’s funeral was today, im
mediate family only. I toasted her memory, not the last and bloodied one I had of her but of the competent, dedicated, radiant and benevolent presence she had been on this planet.

  I have never been overly fond of hospitals and certainly have no favourites. The Royal United however seemed to have a firm fan base in Bath. “Hands Off Our RUH” was the headline in the Bath Chronicle today. Branded the worst hospital in the West, one of the few not to earn a single star, its management team was soon to be replaced, after it had emerged that waiting lists had been massaged and vast sums of money wasted. Yet the citizens of Bath fiercely defended their hospital, remembering only friendly nurses and dedicated doctors. And nurses and doctors, like private eyes and art therapists, are fiercely protective of their patients.

  “I couldn’t give out any information like that, certainly not to a private individual.” The psychiatric nurse had agreed to speak to me in the reception area of Hill View, the psychiatric wing of the RUH. He had not, however, agreed to tell me anything. He had an impressive, rock-like quality, standing perfectly still while he spoke, only his eyes intelligently mobile.

  I tried for reassurance. “I’m not after medical details. The fact that Mr Backhaus was a patient here is now public knowledge anyway. You are not protecting Gavin by refusing to talk to me. On the contrary he is missing and the sooner we find him the sooner he’ll get the help he needs. Gavin needs care. He’s not getting it while he’s in hiding.”

  He looked straight into my eyes for half a minute, perhaps trying to gauge the level of my sincerity, then nodded. “You’re right, he did make a friend here. After he was moved from Balmoral, that’s the lock-up ward, to Sandringham. Carol Hicks. They became quite inseparable. They never seemed to talk much. Gavin was very, very quiet. But they did have a good rapport; sat together, went for walks in the grounds. Whether they stayed in touch or not I don’t know.”

  “Is Carol still here?”

  “She’s no longer a patient here.”

  “Any idea where she went?”

  He opened his arms wide. “Even if I did…” I thanked him for his help, went back to my car and rang Tim at work.

  “I need an address for a Carol Hicks. Probably a council tenant.”

  “Sure. Now?”

  “Now.”

  “Call you in a mo.” I felt restless so I started driving back towards town, even though it might turn out that I was going in the wrong direction. I was on Weston Road, passing the Approach Golf Course, when he called back with an address in Milsom Street. I hadn’t known that anyone lived in Bath’s main shopping street, I’d imagined all upper floors to have been converted to storage or office space. Apparently not. Carol’s flat turned out to be one of three above an expensive-looking shoe shop a few doors down from the Loch Fyne Fish Restaurant. The door into the stairwell was propped open with a wooden wedge, the floor was damp as it had just been cleaned. On the second landing I knocked on a dark green impersonal door in a way I hoped sounded light-hearted, possibly even neighbourly. I could hear a slight noise, like a door being opened, on the other side yet it was another minute before I heard the clinking of a security chain and the opening of the door. Half a face appeared in the crack, level with mine. Carol was a tall woman, late twenties perhaps, and from what I could see at least half of her short-cropped hair was blonde and one of her eyes was blue. “Yes?”

  “Hi, are you Carol?”

  “Says so on the door, last time I looked.”

  “My name’s Chris Honeysett. I’m a private investigator. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Depends. What’s it about?”

  “Gavin Backhaus.”

  “Gavin? Haven’t seen him for ages.”

  “Still, anything might be helpful. Could I come inside for a moment?”

  She considered it for a moment. “S’pose so.” She shut the door to unhook the chain, then stood back to let me into the narrow corridor. “Straight through.”

  The living room was tiny. A two-seater sofa under the window took up most of the space. To the left a door opened into a kitchen galley, next to it a shelf unit with a few books, a midi system and a portable TV. Most of the remaining floor space was taken up with sports gear, trainers, a hockey stick, racquets, a set of orange plastic-covered weights.

  “You’re into sports.”

  “Used to be a lifeguard. Then I fell ill and had to give it up. Now I’m trying to get back into shape.” She indicated the sofa for me to sit on but remained standing herself. “I heard about Gavin, the whole thing about the murders. Read it in the Chron. Do they think he did it? He didn’t, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  “You spoke to him?”

  A shake of the head. “As I said, I haven’t seen him for ages.”

  “Did you keep in touch after he left the hospital?”

  “No, that was it. He went to Somerset and I got housed here. But I got to know him quite well at Hill View. Believe me, he’d never harm anyone. Especially not the housekeeper. He really liked her. Would you like a mug of tea? I was making some anyway, kettle’s just boiled.” Without waiting for an answer she walked into the tiny kitchen, flicked the kettle back on. She had noticed her blunder but hoped I hadn’t.

  “Tea would be great. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Go ahead, it’s the door on the right.”

  The bathroom was directly opposite what had to be the bedroom door. I squeezed in, shut the door noisily. Only one toothbrush. Not stupid, then. As quietly as I could I opened the door again. The handle squeaked a little but I could hear the clinking of mugs from the kitchen. One step across the ridiculously narrow corridor. I tried the bedroom door. Opened it a few inches, enough to peer into its gloomy, curtained interior. The hockey stick caught me across the side of my knee, then Carol crashed her weight into me, knocking me off balance. “Go, Gav, go, go!”

  He’d been hiding behind the door and now shot past me, while Carol blocked my way, brandishing the hockey stick like she meant to use it.

  “Gavin, I just want to talk!” I called after him but all I got in answer was the hammering of his feet down the stairs. I really didn’t feel like another scrap and a dash after a bloke half my age, so just stood rubbing my knee. “I only want to talk to him,” I tried to reassure Carol. She didn’t even acknowledge I had spoken. She continued to bar my way in a goalkeeper stance, knees slightly bent, light on her trainer-shod feet, her eyes alert little pinpricks of suspicion. After a couple of minutes she suddenly stood aside, knowing she had given Gavin enough of a head start.

  “I’m trying to help. I really just want to talk.”

  No eye contact. Carol inclined her head towards the door. “He doesn’t talk well. You should know.”

  “Is he getting his medication?”

  “He’s better off without it. And without you lot. I’d like you to go now, please.”

  The door closed quietly behind me.

  So Gavin was alive and had found himself a champion. If I’d had any sense at all and had contacted Needham he would now be in custody, being questioned. Instead I had sent him running, God knew where. Was I going to contact Needham now and tell him all about it? No, I’d had enough grief for one day. Now I’d try something easy for a change.

  Back to the valley but out the other end, up and up towards Chippenham and Jake’s place. Another small farm had bitten the dust up here and Jake had moved in a few years ago with the intention of breeding ponies and living quietly. It hadn’t worked and so he had turned his hobby into a livelihood: repairing and restoring vintage cars. His business had turned into a goldmine but I have yet to see him without his overall and covering of black grease. By now he could easily afford to give the spanners a rest but he still worked on every car himself. Which is why I trusted him.

  The concrete yard between the barns that now served as workshops was full of what looked like junk to me, spare parts, sad shells of once much-loved cars, some under tarpaulin, some sitting on block
s in the sunshine. A couple of short-legged dogs tore through the place like lightning and disappeared again. Jake swaggered out from the largest workshop, wiping his hand on a rag, his shaven head deeply tanned and shiny with sweat. “You should have rung me first,” was his greeting.

  “You’d have told me you were busy.”

  “I’m telling you now.” He pointed behind him into the garage at a fabulous white Jaguar, the Inspector Morse type. “Got to get this fine British motorcar up to show quality by tomorrow so I’ve got no time for your Frog rust bucket.”

  “It’s just my MOT”s run out and the cops are keeping a beady eye out for me as it is.” Jake disappeared inside and returned a minute later with a pad and stamp, which he put on the roof of the DS. He walked quickly once around my rust bucket, then reached in through the window and beeped the horn. He shrugged. “There is nothing wrong with this vehicle.” He stamped and signed the certificate and held it out to me. “But you have to come back up and have that welding done I mentioned last time or your arse’ll hit tarmac soon. Fifty squidlets.”

  “There’s another little thing. Could you check out a couple of plates for me?” I handed him a piece of paper with the registration numbers of the Mercedes and BMW I had seen parked at Starfall House.

  “Seventy, then.”

  “I don’t carry that much with me.”

  “Then you’d better be carrying it when you collect these registrations, hadn’t you?” He was already walking back into his workshop.

  As I turned out of the yard and on to the track that would take me back to the road something made me feel queasy. Sweet chilli sauce for breakfast? The sunshine flickering through the hedge was altogether too bright today. I put on my shades. A belated hangover? I tried winding down the window, found it was down already. And I was sweating. My heart hammered as though I’d been running. On the narrow tarmac road I stopped to catch my breath. Then I saw it.

  The landscape had a hole in it. I shut my eyes hard and opened them again. The hole had become a gash. It was getting bigger and travelled wherever I looked. Its edges flickered like lightning, inside a bright Technicolor movie was playing, things I couldn’t quite make out, too fast to catch. I closed one eye, then the other, rubbed them hard. It made no difference but added some interesting swirls. The rent in my vision stayed, sweeping directly across the centre, from bottom left to top right. For a moment I considered going back to Jake’s but couldn’t see what good it would do. The man was busy. I needed to get out of the heat, out of the glare of the sun. More than anything I wanted to be at Mill House, shutting out the light. But could I drive? I pulled away carefully and found that by angling my head and moving it this way and that I could catch glimpses of the road ahead. All this movement made things worse, the edges of the gash started to curl and pulsate, threatening to obliterate my vision altogether. I slowed down even further, edged my way into the main road at walking speed, stayed as close to the verge as possible. Cars sped by, horns blaring. Fortunately the back roads swallowed me up again soon. I tootled along the narrow lanes, trying not to think of what was churning away in my stomach, my head out of the window, probing the way ahead with the fringes that remained of my vision, trying to ignore the home movies on show in the centre. Now a loud noise appeared behind me. I angled my head back. A beep from a horn. Great. Now I was holding up a tractor. Was I going that slowly? I pointed to the bonnet, hoping to give the impression I had engine trouble. The noise of the tractor’s engine seemed to cut through my brain like an angle grinder. The infernal machine followed me all the way home, so it was probably being driven by one of my neighbours, only I couldn’t make out which. Annis’s Land Rover was in the yard. I made it into the house, up the stairs and into my bedroom where the shutters were still mercifully closed against the glare of summer. Shutting my eyes fast I lay still, very still, for what seemed like a very long time.