by Peter Helton
Chapter Twelve
“So what did you get for the barbecue?” Tim asked, staring into the half-empty fridge. “He’ll be here in an hour, and I haven’t wired you up yet, either.”
“Don’t be daft. There’s not going to be any barbecue. It’s purely a pretext to get Gordon here so I can provoke him and you can tape the conversation from the barn. That’s why I’m making supper now.” I was shelling Matt’s windfall of broad beans at the kitchen table.
“You must be damn certain that Gordon is your man. I mean, what if it doesn’t work? How’re you gonna explain the lack of food if he doesn’t react the way you want him to?”
“Once I’ve accused him of sexual abuse and Jenny’s murder I’m sure he’ll have lost his appetite. I can’t see us talking about it with chicken drumsticks in our hands. Don’t worry about it, Gordon is our man. Only no one ever investigated him properly because he was supposed to have a cast-iron alibi. Except, of course, he hasn’t. As Annis said — alibi shmalibi. Everyone thought Jenny was still alive when he left because of the damn flan in the oven.”
“I thought it was a quiche,” Tim contested.
“You’re right, it was. But damn and flan sound better together.” He looked at me as though I’d finally lost my marbles. Perhaps I had. I savaged a few more beans out of their pods and several jumped on to the floor. “Oh, whatever. There was an hour-long power cut in Poet’s Corner between twelve and one. Jenny’s hob was gas but her new oven was electric. I noticed the timer was blinking nonsensical numbers when I came into the kitchen. That’s because the leccy had been off and the digital clock needed resetting. But the oven itself started up again and cooked the quiche, only it took an hour longer than it should have. We’ve no idea where Dave and Gavin were at the time but the two girls were upstairs listening to loud music with headphones, sharing Anne’s new diskman. They didn’t notice the power cut and they didn’t hear a thing. And there’s something else I remembered. Gordon told everyone he was there because he had to fix a date for the next committee meeting. Purely routine. But when I saw Jenny earlier she had already called a committee meeting for Saturday, when she thought everything would be resolved. After that she was going to take a few days off.”
“Okay, so he’s your man. Still, shame about the barbecue,” he insisted.
“That’s why I’m fixing up something now.”
“Broad beans make me fart. Good job the girls aren’t here.” I had banished Annis and Alison from the house for the day. If there had to be a showdown then I wanted as few people there as possible. Gordon had killed once already, which is why I didn’t want any distractions or anyone else to worry about. So I sent them to London to stock up on paint and canvas. They wouldn’t be back until much later.
While a pan of new potatoes simmered away I got out the belly of pork, which allowed me to test out my new supersharp Chinese meat cleaver. It made short work of dicing it, which in my present mood was immensely satisfying. While Tim watched impatiently I fried the pork in olive oil in a deep-sided frying pan, then added chopped onions and rendered them soft and golden before adding the beans, a cup of stock, some crushed garlic, cumin and a handful of parsley. Then slammed a lid on it. Nothing to it.
Tim was right, I had left everything to the last minute so I’d be too busy to get nervous about it. He fixed me up with my radio mike. The microphone itself travelled halfway up the inside of my shirt and would be undetectable, but the transmitter, the size of a cigarette packet, sat heavily and uncomfortably in the small of my back. It was held on with gaffer tape, which started itching immediately. Feeling more like a TV chef than a private investigator I dished up the beans and potatoes, giving a running commentary so Tim could test it out from his hidden setup in the shed across the yard. Once he was satisfied that the transmitter worked we silently wolfed down our food, snatched gulps of pilsner from big green bottles and listened in to the humid silence in case Gordon arrived early.
With Tim and his tape recorder installed behind a collection of junk in one of the sheds I walked restlessly in the empty yard. Only Annis’s Land Rover was parked here, the other cars were hidden in the outbuildings. The sky hung like soft cement over the sweltering valley. I stopped by the stream where it tumbled down into the mossy void where the mill wheel had once sat. The leafy tunnel of the lane through which Gordon would come remained empty. Somewhere across the valley a chain saw started up and fell silent again. The air sat thick and unmoving. It tasted as though I had breathed each lungful at least twice before.
“Nothing so far. Quite peaceful out here,” I said for Tim’s benefit. “I still wish I had my gun.”
Annis and I had rowed about it earlier. It hadn’t been easy to convince her to leave in the first place but under no circumstances was she going to agree to it if I waited for Gordon with a .38 in my pocket. In the end the girls had driven off in my DS and taken it with them. When I checked later, the shotgun had disappeared as well.
I knew she was right all along. I couldn’t force a confession out of the man at gunpoint. It would never stand up in court. Jenny’s murder appeared unpremeditated, committed with an impromptu weapon, so I had no reason to believe that Gordon would turn up at Mill House all tooled up, even if he was wise to my suspicions. And after all, Tim was just across the yard. So what could possibly go wrong?
“I can hear an engine, I’m going inside now. Stay sharp, Tim,” I said to my shirt and hurried across the yard to hide in the shadows just inside the front door. I had expected Gordon’s little Volvo to come bouncing down the lane. Instead a huge gun-metal grey Mercedes advanced towards the house. The cautious driver, invisible behind deeply tinted windows, picked his way carefully among the potholes. The car slowed even further, coming to a halt just outside the tumbledown gates of the yard. There it sat, engine softly idling, like a wary animal, ready for sudden flight. After a long minute it rolled quietly into the yard and came to a stop opposite me. I stepped forward out of the shadows, keeping what I hoped was a neutral expression on my face.
Gordon Hines unfolded himself from the driver’s seat and stood by the open door, his arms leaning casually on the roof, hands folded as if in prayer. He wore razor-sharp navy blue trousers and a pale blue shirt, open at the neck. An impossibly thin gold wristwatch flashed from under a cuff. Every one of his thinning hairs was immaculately in place and his often wayward eyebrows had been neatly plucked. He had lost every hint of the religious fuddy-duddy. Even his speech had sharpened up.
“Thought perhaps I’d got the date wrong. But I haven’t, have I?” he said quietly. “It’s just that your yard looks a little empty for a party.”
“You’re a bit early, that’s all,” I tried to reassure him. The last thing I wanted was for him to drive off again now. “Nice car, by the way.”
“You’ve no idea how nice. Always wanted one of these. No reason not to now.” He reached inside the car for something, then clunked the door shut, walked around the front and advanced. He was holding a bottle of red by the neck like a weapon. “You might be a good cook, Honeysett, but you’re a pathetic liar. I know what game you’re trying to play but it won’t work. It didn’t work for Jenny and it won’t work for you. And this is not a peace offering.” He wagged the bottle. “I just want a decent drink while I set you straight about a few things.”
“Okay, then. You’d better come in.” I stepped back but he didn’t move.
“Have you got your posse in there?”
I shook my head. “Just you and me.”
“That’s the way I like it. Lead on.”
Against my better judgement I turned my back on him, though not without keeping his every move in my peripheral vision. Gordon walked into the sitting room as though he knew the place well, checked the dining area in front of the open veranda doors and the passage towards the kitchen. He flicked open the small door to the walk-in cupboard under the stairs and quickly glanced inside. Then he turned the bottle and pointed its neck at me. “A corks
crew and one glass are required here. I don’t intend to share this with you, in case you’d wondered. You’re a bit of a lager lout at heart anyway, aren’t you.”
“I didn’t ask you here to share anything with you, Gordon.” Having to share breathing space with him was quite enough. “The kitchen’s through here.”
He set the bottle on the table and snorted. “You would have a Rayburn, of course. Style over substance. Just like your paintings.”
I fetched a glass and furnished him with a corkscrew. I was quite happy to let him do all the talking, only so far he hadn’t said anything vaguely useful. He got the bottle uncorked, filled his glass, sniffed it and took an appreciative sip.
“You know how I got into charity work? I married a do-gooder. I was never a do-gooder myself. I’d always looked out for Number One. Only I wasn’t very good at it. I had a small business but I got squeezed out by the big guys. It didn’t matter. Helen had inherited enough money to keep us in quite some style. But charity always got in the way. There was always some good work to do. Pathetic people to rescue. We owned Somerset Lodge but she wouldn’t sell it. A million and a quarter just sitting there, infested with deserving nutters. And more well-wishing idiots, like Jenny.”
Gordon’s mention of her name made me reach for a bottle of pilsner on the table. It was empty. I got a new one from the fridge and fortified myself with a long cool draught. I had intended to stay quite sober, but what the hell. I stood by the fridge while Gordon stood leaning against the kitchen units by the door, glass and bottle within comfortable reach. He seemed at ease yet never took his eyes off me, registering my every move.
“But don’t get me wrong. I loved Helen. I really…truly did. When we found out that she had cancer I was more devastated than she was. And it was around then that I went off the rails a bit.” He briefly raised his eyebrows and took a delicate sip of wine.
“Let’s get this straight right now,” I said, keeping my voice controlled and as level as possible. “By off-the-rails you mean you started sexually abusing mental health patients down in Brighton.”
A sharp intake of breath. “What would you know about it?” A thin smile remained on his face. “I was not myself then. And it was only one girl. It was a fixation. I prayed with her each time. I helped her atone for her sins. I was trying to help her. We were helping each other. You wouldn’t understand.”
It was my turn to snort with disbelief. “The Culverhouse Trust knew and didn’t call in the authorities?”
“They had problems of their own. It was a scandal too many. They couldn’t afford it.”
“And they were happy to have you on the committee that ran Somerset Lodge?”
“They had little choice, since Helen and I owned the place. They were pretty broke by then. Couldn’t afford to buy a place. Finding a new place to rent around here would have been near impossible; they had lost charitable status by then. And I had explained myself well. They understood the stress I’d been under. I had given assurances.”
We weren’t doing too badly. An admission of abuse on tape was a start. I only hoped the microphone was picking up his voice across the kitchen. I inched a bit closer under the guise of making myself more comfortable. “But then it started again,” I prompted.
He gave a single nod. “Helen was dying. The drugs could no longer suppress the pain. I could no longer bear the pain either.” He gulped what was left in his glass, refilled it and took another swig.
“Jenny found out,” I said flatly. I wasn’t prepared for what came next.
“She found out and started blackmailing me. And now you think you can take over. I don’t think so.”
“She blackmailed you for money?” I couldn’t believe that for one minute.
“Use your loaf, Honeysett,” he said contemptuously. “Jenny was a real do-gooder. She got a written testimonial from the girl. After my wife died she used it to make sure I didn’t sell off the house. I would have to live off my little pension, in my little house, with my little Volvo. And she got more and more ambitious. She started using me to influence the committee. About conditions at Somerset Lodge, the amount of rent charged, working conditions for herself…” He trailed off and waved a dismissive hand.
“So one day you decided enough was enough and you killed her.”
His eyes widened. He slowly shook his head. He drew his mouth into a pitying smile. “Is that what you think? Is that what you got me here for?” He shook his head again. “I didn’t kill Jenny. I’ve no idea who killed Jenny. I don’t care who killed the hitch but I’m sure glad someone did.” The dawning of a realization. “Oh, how unfortunate. You didn’t really have any proof of any of this, did you? You weren’t even interested. You made me come here to confess to her murder, didn’t you? Which means you’ve probably got a clever little tape recorder hidden somewhere.”
I shook my head slowly, trying to fathom whether I believed him or not. His next move made that rather irrelevant.
“How unfortunate for you.” He reached across the work surface and picked up my Chinese meat cleaver, tested it for weight. “I hadn’t really planned for violence, so thank you for supplying this. I only came to warn you off trying to blackmail me. I’m quite comfortably off now and money buys muscle, if you know what I mean. I really just wanted you to hand over the girl’s written statement. The police didn’t find it, and I had a very good look for it, here and at Somerset. So I presumed you’d got it hidden somewhere. Oh dear. And now I’ll kill you if I don’t get the tape. And even then I shall probably kill you, I’ve only just realized that. Oh dear,” he said again quietly, “this is going to be messy, isn’t it?” He took a playful swipe at me. “Very messy.
I backed off, looking around for something to defend myself with while keeping more than one eye on the cleaver I had so lovingly sharpened earlier. There was nothing within reach to match his weapon, not even a conveniently boiling pan of water. I was quite sure that Tim had clicked that we were talking about a deadly weapon here but I made myself feel better by spelling it out for him. “Put that meat cleaver down, Gordon,” I said to my shirt.
“The tape, Honeysett. Where’s the tape? Mm? Where’s your little microphone? I’m sure you couldn’t resist trying to be clever.” He waggled the knife a little and advanced further. He nearly had me backed up into the corner by the stove now and there was nowhere to run.
“There’s no tape, Gordon. Just you and me. And I didn’t even know about the piece of paper. It was all speculation. I was convinced you killed Jenny. I still think it was you.”
“Think what you like, you’ll die ignorant then. Come to think of it, there is no real reason why I can’t just kill you and look for the tape afterwards, is there?” he said drily.
“This isn’t necessary. We can come to an arrangement here.” I was stalling.
And Gordon knew it. He swung the cleaver in a horizontal arc. I jumped back a fraction too late: the blade sliced into my right forearm which I had raised instinctively to ward him off. Blood appeared instantly through the gash in my shirt which turned crimson in a widening stain. The pain took a few seconds to catch up. Idiotically I wondered how clean I had left the blade. Perhaps this wasn’t the moment to worry about germs. I held my arm up and watched drops of blood seep through the material of the shirt, then plop quietly on to the floor. I’ve always been fascinated by the sight of my own blood.
He noticed that too. “Hello!” he called. “I did that to get your attention, man. Now am I going to get the tape of this riveting conversation or what?” He took a firmer grip on the cleaver. Surely this was the moment for Tim to do something heroic? Like save my life again? Perhaps he had decided it would be more sporting to let me get out of this mess by myself, but I was beginning to suspect something more sinister. In fact it rapidly dawned on me that for whatever reason I was probably on my own with this one.
I pulled a dishcloth from the rail of the Rayburn, wrapped it around my forearm and mumbled “Okay, okay” in a desper
ate effort to buy my lazy brain more time to devise some sort of strategy. Rushing a knife-wielding man bare-handed is strictly for TV heroes. In real life you’re bound to come off rather badly.
No such considerations appeared to hamper the eighteen-stone ball of hatred that flew through the kitchen door just then and barrelled into Gordon, squashing him against the kitchen counter. The cleaver fell from his grip and skidded away across the tiles. The huge figure was clad head to toe in blue waterproofs, a black crash helmet clamped over her head. She used it to nut Gordon on the side of his twisted face, twice, and then again for good measure while he slid semi-conscious on to the floor. Despite the biker outfit and crash helmet I had little doubt as to who my rescuer was. “Lisa?”
She turned towards me, half as broad as she was tall. Her visor had detached itself during the headbutting performance. Fierce eyes burned above a fleshy nose and livid, squashed cheeks. Her voice boomed from inside her helmet. “She defended him from his enemies and kept him safe from those who lay in wait. Not,” she added, and landed a leather-gloved fist in my face, sending me sprawling to the floor. “Make yourself small, you worm, or you shall be trodden on in the realization of my vengeance,” came her advice.
Gordon lay limp as a rag doll, propped against the counter. He was still dazed and groaned quietly.
“And they, repenting and groaning for anguish of spirit, shall say within themselves, this is She, whom we held sometimes in derision. Hello, Mr Hines.” She lifted a heavy boot and ground it into his groin. I winced. Gordon screamed, shocked into full consciousness. “You were always pleased to see me before. You told me I was pretty.” She stepped back and looked around the kitchen, her arms stiff by her side. Then nodded theatrically, picked up the meat cleaver off the floor and advanced on Gordon again. One hand protecting his groin, the other scrabbling for a hold to heave himself up, he simply shook his head. “Nononono.”
“Put that down, Lisa,” I said in what I hoped was a reasonable and steady voice.
