A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  ‘Why would she want to leave?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Fright?’

  ‘I only met her once, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She frightened me.’

  ‘You frighten easily, Frank?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you think she’s gone to work as usual, ignorant of the fact that her girlfriend’s lying in the morgue?’

  ‘Maybe.’ A cat wandered into the kitchen, looked at a bowl of food, sniffed it and began to eat. ‘That’s fresh.’ He pointed at the cat food. ‘If she was doing a runner, she wouldn’t have bothered to feed the cat.’

  ‘Don’t you think so?’ Evans turned to his colleague. ‘You’re an animal lover, sergeant; what would you do? Stop to spoon out the Whiskas?’

  ‘Of course, Chief.’ Davis winced, rubbed his forehead, and frowned. ‘I wouldn’t want to compound my guilt, as it were.’ He bent down and stroked the cat.

  Evans turned back to Frank and raised his eyebrows. ‘Is she the guilty type?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘She’s a teacher.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘Holy Oak. Design and Technology.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They paint T-shirts, frig around with paint, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think I do,’ said Evans, but I think I’m going to find out.’ He put his hand on Frank’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Maybe we could find out together.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Frank, ‘why not?’

  ‘Davis?’

  Davis had his head against the cat’s and was whispering to it.

  ‘Davis?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Come on.’

  Davis stood up, the cat rubbed itself on his legs, he smiled at it and turned away.

  The school secretary asked Frank, Evans and Davis to wait in the headmaster’s office. Frank cleaned his nails, Evans studied a school photograph and Davis looked at the school goldfish. This fish was sick. It did the puckering thing with its lips, but couldn’t suck the sodden gobs of food that floated around its bowl. Its scales had lost their shine, and its gills were shot; Davis flicked his fingers at the water, licked his lips and said, ‘This fish is on the way out.’

  ‘Want to call the RSPCA?’ said Evans.

  Davis shook his head, and a tiny ball of rage flared in his stomach. It bounced twice and found a hole that led to his gut. It slid sideways and dissolved. Fish had feelings. He took a deep breath and turned away. ‘Too late.’

  The door opened. ‘Gentlemen.’ The headmaster, a bald man with small feet, entered the room. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Evans,’ said Evans, and he flipped his card. ‘We’re looking for Diana Austin. She teaches here?’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘Could we have a word with her?’

  ‘You could,’ said the head, ‘if she was here, but she called in sick this morning.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘Flu. There’s a lot of it around.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Might I ask what this is about?’

  ‘Routine enquiry,’ said Evans. ‘Some stolen property has turned up that we believe is hers. We have to check some details.’

  ‘I see,’ said the head.

  ‘Thanks for your time,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘No problem,’ said the head.

  ‘Ideas?’ said Evans.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the office,’ said Frank.

  ‘Have you?’ said Davis.

  ‘You going to be there all day?’

  ‘In and out,’ said Frank.

  ‘Don’t go far.’

  ‘Me?’ said Frank.

  ‘You,’ said Davis.

  ‘And you can tell your boss,’ said Evans, ‘Bob, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘We’ll want a word with him.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘Problem with that?’

  ‘Maybe. He’s been preoccupied.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Boredom, I think.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Evans.

  Frank sat in the office, strung some paperclips together, stared out of the window for five minutes, wished he had shorter legs for another ten, then thought about killing people. Once, he had threatened to kill someone, but the thought had been miles from the action. What happens in a mind when it leaps from the thought to the deed? Is it something to do with chemicals surging, or electrical activity? Did Lisa want to kill Adrian, did Bob want to kill himself? Would Mrs Platt want to kill the vet if she knew the truth? What happens when people stop asking questions? Frank picked up a copy of Yellow Pages and turned to Garages. Lisa used to talk about meeting Adrian at Brakes and Tyres, or about going down there for lunch, or about getting a good deal at Brakes and Tyres on your brakes and tyres. He noted the address and went out.

  Twenty minutes later, he was working a deceit on one of Adrian’s old work-mates, John. Frank explained that he worked for the Valley Insurance Company, and had the cheque with him.

  ‘What cheque?’

  Frank took a blank envelope out of his pocket and waved it. ‘Mr Coleman made a claim last month; he asked us to deliver the money personally.’

  ‘But he doesn’t work here any more. He left yesterday.’

  ‘Can you tell me where he is?’

  John had been made to swear to keep his mouth shut. Nobody must know, don’t trust anyone, don’t say a word. ‘I can’t,’ said John.

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ said Frank.

  ‘I promised.’

  ‘You promised.’ Frank shook his head gravely. ‘Good. But what’s he going to say when he finds out, and he will, that you’re responsible for him missing out on over two hundred pounds, two hundred pounds he claimed for, two hundred pounds that’s rightfully his.’

  John thought slowly.

  ‘John?’

  ‘I could send it to him.’

  ‘You could not.’

  John said, ‘I should call him.’

  ‘And tell him what? Sorry, but I’m screwing up your chance of getting a wad?’

  John thought again, wiped his hands on a cloth and said, ‘Wait here.’ He came back two minutes later with a piece of paper. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Dixon’s Motors, Forth Street, Carlisle. I haven’t got the number.’

  ‘This is all I need,’ said Frank. ‘Thanks.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fiver. ‘One more thing,’ he said, pressing the note into John’s hand, ‘if he calls, don’t say anything about this. We like our payments to come as a surprise to our customers.’

  ‘Oh,’ said John, blankly, ‘okay.’

  ‘Good man.’

  John looked at the fiver and smiled. Frank left the garage and drove back to the office.

  ‘Austin’s turned up.’ Evans’s voice was flat and unhurried.

  ‘What’s his story?’ Frank swopped the telephone receiver from one hand to the other.

  ‘Good question; if I knew, I’d tell you, but he’s proving difficult.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Down the front.’

  ‘When did you find him?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Did he do it?’

  There was a pause before Evans said, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘It would be useful to us if you could,’ said Evans. ‘You can establish contact with the after-life?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s dead, Frank.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Gone on…’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Drowned,’ said Evans. ‘We fished him out the drink an hour ago. He’d been dead about twelve hours.’

  ‘I see.’

  Evans coughed. ‘I have to say, Frank, that you don’t seem very surprised.’

  ‘I’m sh
ocked.’

  ‘Or shocked.’

  ‘Have you any idea who did it?’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Killed him?’

  ‘Now, Frank, wait. I never said anything about murder. He was drowned, and at the moment, we’re working on the assumption that he killed his wife, and then, in a fit of remorse, committed suicide. He was a big man, not very fit, the water was freezing. I doubt he could swim.’ Evans tapped a piece of paper. ‘He’s got a mother. We gave her a call; she’s coming from Canterbury.’ He coughed again. ‘Not that she’ll be able to shed any light…’

  ‘He could,’ said Frank.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He could swim.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I met him at The Pines.’

  ‘The Pines?’

  ‘The country club. He was in the pool when I arrived.’

  ‘Swimming?’

  ‘Breaststroke.’

  Evans nodded, but didn’t say anything. He was looking forward to Christmas. His three children and eight grand-children would be visiting. He loved children, he loved giving and receiving presents, he loved helping to decorate the house, and he loved singing carols door to door. He lived for happy, smiling faces standing at hollied doors, he breathed the smell of mince pies and cream. A glass of brandy, coins rattling in a tin, another house and another group of faces. Christmas was Evans’s time. He had not been born to be a policeman, and sometimes, in his deeper moments, he thought he should have been born a woman. A feminine streak ran through his body and creased the folds of his skin. He didn’t know exactly how, but he’d drifted into policing; one day he was looking for a career, the next it was 1973 and he was on the beat with another rookie. Ten years later he was being promoted, and then he had his own office with a view of Brighton’s rooftops. He liked The Beatles, he read Dickens, and he sympathised with squatters. He enjoyed Indonesian food and smoked a cigar on his birthday.

  ‘Hello?’ said Frank.

  ‘Yes?’ said Evans.

  ‘Were there any unusual marks on Austin’s body?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marks. Wounds?’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me my job?’ Evans snapped.

  ‘No. I just thought…’

  ‘He was covered in fish bites,’ said Evans, ‘but we’ve ruled all forms of marine life out of the enquiry.’ He smiled weakly. ‘No motive.’

  Frank phoned Bob and told him to meet him for a drink. Bob said that he was in the bath, and couldn’t see him until the afternoon. Frank didn’t try to persuade him to change his mind; instead, he went to see Lisa. He found her up a ladder, rearranging a shelf of perfume. He said, ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, without looking at him.

  ‘When’s your lunch hour?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m buying,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ Her mouth was dry and her head ached. The perfumes had fazed her nose and made her eyes water. Her feet ached and she felt giddy.

  ‘You will be,’ he said, and he left the shop and stood on the pavement to wait.

  He walked up and down, he counted the number of cars he saw, and he watched children press their faces against the shop windows. The sound of carols drifted from open doors, and fairy lights blinked off and on. A decorated tree stood at the top of the street, its branches weighed down with gift-wrapped empty boxes. The smell of fried bacon wafted in the air, and chips. An old woman was having trouble crossing the road; an old man offered to help her. They crossed together, picking their way over the piles of slush that lined the gutters. A motor cyclist sped by, the back wheel of his bike threatening to slide sideways as he took the bend at the top of the street. A woman in a fur coat climbed into a taxi, leaving her shopping to be loaded by the driver. A bus stopped at traffic lights, and its passengers stared through its streaming windows, their faces lulled by the condensation so they looked liked blooming flowers on short stalks. A pair of seagulls spotted some open dustbins and flew down to peck at a plastic bag; Frank was watching them when Lisa came out.

  ‘Hungry yet?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ She held her stomach. ‘I was terrible this morning.’

  ‘You drank enough.’

  ‘You should have stopped me. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘I didn’t dare.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry!’ He laughed.

  She didn’t. ‘It’s my problem. I shouldn’t have gone on at you like that.’

  ‘I didn’t mind.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘you didn’t, did you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Besides,’ he said, and he looked into her eyes, ‘I know where he is.’

  ‘Where who is?’

  ‘Adrian. I know where he’s gone.’

  Lisa stared blankly. Frank watched her brain work. It flashed signals to her eyes, and her eyes showed no emotion. ‘How?’ she said.

  He tapped the side of his nose. ‘It’s my job.’

  Lisa continued to stare. ‘Do I want to know?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Lisa?’ Frank snapped his fingers in front of her eyes, she blinked, licked her lips and shuffled her shoulders.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said. Now her eyes were swivelling, and she was wringing her hands.

  ‘Are you sure you—’

  She grabbed his arm and squeezed. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Steady.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  Frank wrenched his arm away.

  ‘Frank!’

  He began to walk.

  ‘Where are you going? Frank!’

  He speeded up.

  She caught him and grabbed his arm again. He brushed her off. ‘Frank! Please! I don’t need shit like that, but I’ve got to know. I want to…’

  ‘Look!’ He turned around. People were staring. ‘Either we discuss this quietly, rationally, or we don’t. Your Adrian isn’t just another job to me, but he could be. I don’t have to go around pretending I’m someone else just to keep you happy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You want the truth, but I have to lie to get it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  People were still staring. ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll tell you about it.’

  Two hours later, Frank rang Bob again. Bob was listening to ‘La Clemenza Di Tito’ and watching television with the sound down. ‘The more I hear your words, the greater grows my passion. When one soul unites with another, what joy a heart feels! Ah, eliminate from life, all that is not love!’ He had a bowl of peanuts on his lap, and the remains of a newspaper covered his legs. He was thinking about the Romans, and he was thinking about having a long, hot bath. When the phone rang, he grabbed it and snapped, ‘What?’

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘What is it, Frank?’

  ‘We’ve got to talk.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Si tronchi dalla vita,’ said Bob.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Frank scratched his head. ‘Can I come round?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’ll meet you here.’

  ‘Invite me to a party, Frank, and then I’ll be happy to come out. Otherwise, forget it,’ he said, and hung up.

  Frank rang back immediately.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m inviting you to a party.’

  ‘When.’

  ‘Tonight. Downstairs from my place. You know Mrs Platt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll like her. Half-eight. Bring a bottle.’

  ‘Or two?’

  ‘Or two,’ said Frank, and he hung up.

 
‌9

  The vet had never seen anything like the scene in Mrs Platt’s room. He had a sherry. Then he had to have another. He’d been feeling guilty about killing her bird; accepting her offer of a drink was a way to make amends. Show kindness and a caring nature, and offer sincere condolences; he hadn’t expected what he found.

  Joey lay on a bed of red satin, and a candle burned at his head. Mrs Platt had washed him and brushed his feathers. Other candles burned around the room, and trays of glasses and bottles twinkled in their light. Chopin crackled in the background. Frank was having to raise his voice to make himself understood by Bob. Lisa was inspecting paintings, china and porcelain, swinging between tears and rage, and nursing a glass of wine. Mrs Platt was wearing black and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. The vet had tried to make his excuses once, but she insisted. ‘You were his best friend,’ she said. ‘He’d have wanted you to stay.’

  Now the guilt could not be avoided. It was burning him. He had to tell her. ‘Mrs Platt,’ he began.

  ‘Another sherry?’ she said.

  He looked at his glass. ‘I have to say something.’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘For him.’

  The vet looked at the woman and tried to smile. ‘Maybe just one more, but I must tell you—’

  ‘Ssh,’ she said, and she put a finger to her lips.

  Frank put his arm on Bob’s shoulder and said, ‘Mrs Austin.’

  ‘Good woman,’ said Bob. He was holding a bottle of whisky in one hand, and a full glass in the other.

  ‘How can I put this…’

  ‘Tell it straight, Frank.’

  ‘Shall I?’

  ‘Flannel at your peril.’

  Frank cleared his throat. ‘She’s been murdered.’

  Bob looked at the bottle. ‘Murdered?’

  Frank nodded. ‘And this afternoon, old man Austin turned up floating off the pier.’

  Bob looked at his glass. ‘Drowned?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had he paid his bill?’ Bob took a swig, swilled it around his mouth and swallowed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bill, Frank. What was it?’

  ‘Screw the bill.’

  ‘Now, now; that’s not the sort of attitude that’s going to take you far. If you want to run the agency, you’ll have to change your way of thinking.’

  ‘I don’t want to run the agency.’

  ‘I thought it was agreed.’

  ‘Nothing was agreed!’

  ‘But this morning, we—’