by Alan Hunter
Noel Raynes’s head drooped over the glass. Keeping his face turned from Gently, he took another jerky gulp.
‘So I got him up . . . on that settee.
‘There was still plenty of life in him then! His eyes opened . . . he sort of grinned at me . . . I shoved a cushion under his head.
‘Then he went to sleep again . . .
‘I’d switched on the table-lamp. Except for the snore he was looking peaceful . . . one thing’s certain, if you’ve got to go . . . ! But whether you believe me or not . . .’
‘Believe you didn’t suspect he was dying?’
‘How can I make you understand. As far as I knew . . . what really bothered me was what he might remember the next day!
‘He’d been drugged. That couldn’t be concealed . . . especially if the old girl had overdone it. If he’d woken up at noon, still fully dressed . . . or even if I’d managed to put him to bed . . .
‘Then there’d really have been trouble, because Ronnie wouldn’t have taken that lying down.
‘He was the sort to ring his solicitor and bring the police charging out here . . .’
Jerking his head round, he demanded:
‘Can’t you realize what that would have meant? With Mother the way she is, it might have ended up with her in a home.’
As though he’d earned it, he tossed off the drink and jumped up to pour himself another. But his movements were agitated; he spilled whisky, coming back to the window with a dripping glass.
‘That’s why I did . . . what I did.
‘It was to get Mother off the hook. I wanted to stop him getting back at her – perhaps from driving her round the bend.’
‘So you faked his suicide.’
‘No – not suicide! Just a plausible explanation. So that when he woke up, there were the aspirins, and he couldn’t prove one thing or another . . .
‘People do take pills, forget they’ve taken them, take some more, then perhaps some more . . .
‘So Ronnie wakes up with a burning mouth and the glass and empty bottle beside him.’
‘For that, did you need actually to give him the aspirin?’
‘Yes – he had to have the taste on his tongue.’
‘But so much . . . ?’
‘It wasn’t so much! I took thirty aspirins once, for a kick!’
‘And . . . the matter of the fingerprints?’
‘All right – I agree. That comes under the head of gilding the lily.
‘But I wasn’t going to have it traced back to me, and it might have been if Ronnie had turned in the glass.’
He breathed hard, flicked his brow and tried to take a measured sip. Below the constable was just visible, boredly rocking on his heels.
‘I’m not proud of what I’ve done . . . but I’m not ashamed of it, either! If I’d known . . . but I didn’t, so what’s the use of pretending about that?
‘And as for Mother . . .
‘Ten to one she thought she was merely knocking him out, just putting a spoke in his wheel . . . perhaps, only giving him a bad time!
‘Ronnie was the enemy, can’t you see?
‘He was the cuckoo in the nest . . .
‘If he died, it was mostly an accident, certainly not because any of us . . .’
Shaking, he gulped back more whisky, cupping the glass with his father’s gesture. His eyes kept jinking to Gently’s, then sliding away again, sinking.
‘I’m not confessing . . . is that clear?
‘It’s just that you said you’d give me a chance . . .
‘None of this is on the record . . . I’ve told you everything . . . I’m not responsible . . .’
Gently’s shoulders heaved.
With a faint shriek, the distant band-saw had started up again. On the sweep Wallace had come into view, carrying a plastic bag that dangled.
He was chatting to the plain-clothes man beside him, at the same time waving his free hand. Stopping by the constable, his lips framed the enquiry:
‘Where’s the gaffer got to, then?’
‘Of course . . . if you quote me, I shall flatly deny it.’
‘Of course . . .’
Gently blew though his pipe.
‘And if you’re thinking that Lynne . . . let me tell you something. Wives can’t testify, can they?’
Gently merely shrugged.
‘That’s that then! Naturally, I told her what had happened. And when Ronnie was found dead, well . . . Lynne can see as far ahead as most people.
‘Now she’s the third Mrs Raynes – Clive coughed up for a special licence. Which makes it watertight, wouldn’t you say?
‘Not that Lynne would have spilt much, any way . . .’
‘You say he smiled at you?’
‘He . . . what . . . ?’
Gently put away his pipe and rose. In the window, the half-drunk bluebottle was still buzzing and bumping fitfully.
‘Wasn’t there a moment . . . perhaps just one! . . . when it crossed your mind that Best might be dying – and when, if you’d gone for help, you’d have saved his life and stopped your mother from becoming a murderess?’
‘No – I’ve told you—!’
‘But can you tell yourself . . . ? Because that’s the question you’ll have to live with.
‘Also your wife . . . won’t she be asking it, wondering what sort of man she married?’
Noel Raynes’s eyes were hot; teeth showed between his parted lips.
‘Listen! Just tell me what you’re going to do about this.’
‘I shall write my report.’
‘But you said . . . !’
Shaking his head, Gently moved to the window. Opening it, he gave the bluebottle a nudge that sent it zooming into the sunlight.
By the cars, Wallace stood waving, holding up his plastic bag. Ives had just come out with two men, each carrying a sealed container.
‘Better make that phone-call . . .’
Noel Raynes said nothing. Hunched in his chair, he was staring at nowhere.
Another car, arriving just then, brought the pathologist, Doctor Wittard.
Mrs Raynes survived, but not her sanity. The Public Prosecutor made no move. Ronald Best’s remains were discreetly reburied and Mrs Raynes settled in a private nursing-home.
The quarrel with Arthur Swafield was patched up; Clive Raynes was taken into partnership. Noel Raynes entered the firm, but left eighteen months later with an embezzlement charge hanging over him. His wife divorced him.
Walter Raynes drank a little harder, swore a little oftener. He installed in his house an old flame of his youth, one suitably grateful and undemanding.
His wife has ceased to recognize any of the family except, perversely, her youngest daughter’s husband. With him she played games of chess, often surprising him by her acuteness.
Then she was happy.
She took him, apparently, to be a husband whose business affairs kept him from home.
Brundall, 1977/8
