He gave himself away by glancing quickly down to his left hand.
‘Oh, oh yes, those. Had an accident. Caught them in the car door.’
‘Really …’ I nodded slowly. ‘Not what I heard.’ I reached into my pocket and drew out the photograph taken in St Moritz. Holding it out to him, I said, ‘Come on, Jackson, you do have a problem – admit it.’
‘Where did you get this?’ His face drained of colour.
‘Has it anything to do with your fingers getting broken?’
‘Nothing to do with you.’
‘No? When three people have lost their lives? Five, if you count the men who died in prison.’
‘It wasn’t me. I’m not responsible.’
‘So, who is?’
‘It was an accident. Those two women … they went over a glacier … nobody’s fault.’
‘And was it also an accident John Dunston went over Flamborough Head?’
His face screwed up in pain. ‘The newspapers said it was suicide. It was, wasn’t it?’
He very much wanted to be reassured. His dismay was genuine, and at that moment I believed him innocent of the crime of John’s murder.
I slowly shook my head. ‘No.’
Taking a deep shaky breath, he gripped the edge of the hand basin. ‘None of it’s my fault. I just want to put the past behind me.’
‘Seems you are involved. And you are being blackmailed, aren’t you?’
His grip on the basin tightened, fingers whitening. ‘I just want to be left alone, play my piano …’
‘Tell me,’ I urged. ‘Maybe I could help.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Your fingers might not heal so well the next time.’
He caught his breath and his face, already very pale, whitened even more. ‘I must play. Music’s my life. But you see’ – his voice took on a desperate tone – ‘there’s no money in it – not for a solo pianist. Not yet, not until I can build up my reputation. Oh, in an orchestra maybe, but that’s not what I want.’
‘In the meantime, someone’s putting a squeeze on you.’
For a long minute, he stared at me in the mirror, then gave a nod. ‘OK, yes, I am being blackmailed. But I’m not telling you who – or the reason.’
‘Why not? Why protect him?’
‘I’m not. I’m protecting other people.’
‘I’d say you need to protect yourself, wouldn’t you? Rule number one, when you’re looking out for someone, look after yourself first. Because if you don’t, and you go down the pan, they’re going to go down, too.’
‘I’m just trying—’
‘To juggle all the balls, hope none will fall, and the situation will go away?’
He continued to stare at me. Until, finally, he dropped his gaze and let go of the hand basin. ‘Yeah, something like that.’
‘But it’s not going to happen, is it?’
‘No … I realize that. I’m on borrowed time. So is he, right now.’
‘He?’
Jackson stabbed a forefinger at the other man in the photograph. ‘Him!’
‘Was he the person who broke your fingers?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Was it simply a warning – or something more?’
‘Both. A taster of what’s to come if I don’t give him what he wants.’
‘Which is?’
‘Look, I said I wasn’t telling you – and I’m not.’
‘Right. And when this man contacts you again, you’re going to give him what he’s after, are you?’
‘It’s his anyway.’
‘What is?’
‘It’s not going to help you.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Essential paperwork.’
A picture flicked through my mind of the IOU Paula had found in Nigel’s pocket that she had handed to Victor.
‘You mean … like a gambling debt?’
‘I didn’t say that. I’m not answering any more questions, OK?’
‘Fine. But if you want to keep on playing, I’d advise you to get hold of it smartly.’
‘I can’t, damn it. It’s tricky.’
Two men, laughing and talking and obviously well tanked-up, burst in through the cloakroom door and put paid to my opportunity to find out anything else. Jackson seized his chance and bolted out, probably to return to the main lounge.
Quickly sliding a comb from my pocket, I made a show of combing my hair. I certainly wasn’t going to follow Jackson back to the party. The less Jackson and I were seen together in public the better. He was in a dicey and dangerous situation – that much was clear. If our names became linked, given my growing reputation – albeit unwanted – as a successful detective, it could only escalate the outcome.
And from what Jackson had revealed, it was an outcome that involved extreme violence.
‘Thanks for a really great evening.’ Georgia leaned across and planted a kiss on my cheek. I waited, wondering, but she said no more, just opened the Mazda’s passenger door. Carefully planting the battered yet waterproof wellies in the snow on her drive, she got out of the car. ‘I’ll give you a ring, shall I, Harry?’
I nodded. ‘Anytime you’re free. Me – well, I’m pretty much unemployed right now.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy yourself.’ She came round to the driver’s side, bent down and kissed me on the lips. ‘Goodnight.’
I waited, watched until she’d safely made it up the snowy slope and opened the front door, then put the Mazda into reverse, turned in the drive and drove home.
The temperature was falling steadily and was well below zero when I swung in on to the gravel outside the kitchen door.
Indoors, however, the Rayburn was doing a sterling job and the cottage was toasty warm.
I shoved the kettle on the hob and reached for a mug. The next second a large ginger bolster of a cat had landed on my shoulder. Leo, having spent the evening curled up in his basket above the heat source – he wasn’t daft – had launched himself at me and was now looking for company.
‘Too cold for it tonight, eh?’ I scrubbed my knuckles along his chin. He kneaded claws into my shoulder and produced a purr rivalling a road drill. ‘I dare say all your lady friends are tucked up nice and warm as well.’
I made tea and took it through to the lounge, Leo still riding high on my shoulder. Flicking on the electric fire, I stretched out on the sofa and watched the orange and red flames, allowing the mesmeric flickering to soothe and unwind any knots of tension. With the combination of a warm room, a mug of tea and a purring cat, total relaxation was a given.
And when I achieved this level of relaxation, solutions to impenetrable problems seemed to occur spontaneously – but only when I was in possession of sufficient pieces of the jigsaw. Pleasant though this reverie was, no ideas presented themselves. I gave it an hour but I was no further forward.
Giving up on the softly-softly approach, I fetched a notebook and pen and made notes on my conversation with Fellows. A fair bet would be that the paperwork was in regard to a gambling bet; Fellows’ choice of words upheld that theory. So that said, the man in the photograph was probably a member of the group to which Nigel had attached himself. That thought led me straight to the promise I’d made to Victor: on Sunday evening, I was going to have to leave the cosy cottage and go on surveillance. And it could be difficult. If the weather held, the roads would be unpleasant, particularly any country lanes, and the main worry would be the lack of cars on the road.
People tended to go to ground at night, especially on a Sunday and even more so when it was this cold. I’d certainly run a high risk of being spotted unless I could tuck in two or three cars back from Nigel’s car. But as yet, I had not received any instructions from Victor detailing just what type of car Nigel drove or the starting point. The one thing I did know was I would need to fill up the Mazda before attempting to trail him because it was going to be a fair distance there and back.
So, that took care of kee
ping me occupied, as Georgia had commented, on Sunday.
I’d heard nothing from Annabel, which was reassuring. No further repercussions from the letter John Dunston had entrusted to me. And I could only hope that my deflection of the hostility deriving from it would continue to hold off any further threats to Sir Jeffrey.
In the meantime, there was still one other thing I needed to do – and I’d been putting it off, telling myself not to open a further can of worms, yet knowing it must be done. I could get away with not doing it tonight – too cold, too dark, too late. The excuses flowed – all legitimate. However, come the morning, there would be no excuse. Of course, it would depend on what I found, but I was willing to bet Harlequin Cottage on the outcome being explosive.
My gut feeling told me it was going to act as a catalyst, one that, while stretching away with its roots buried in the past, was also reaching forward, affecting the present.
I locked up, went to bed and set my alarm for six a.m. Nobody would be around at that early hour. The cottage was situated down a remote country lane, the nearest neighbour a good half-a-mile away. The only people to come past on a weekday were likely to be the milkman, due around seven o’clock, the postman – and I was lucky if he arrived by nine – or maybe a stray tractor from the nearest farm any time in between, but at six o’clock on a Sunday – no one.
Climbing into bed, I switched off the light and gave myself permission not to think about tomorrow or what unpleasant, undoubtedly dangerous discovery I would make. Tomorrow, very definitely, fell into the category of ‘sufficient unto the day’.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’d slapped off the alarm, dragged on several layers of clothes and gone downstairs to the kitchen. Leo opened one eye, just a slit, to make sure it was me and to make absolutely sure there was no food forthcoming right now, before tucking round into an even tighter ball, tail wrapped fox-like around his nose.
I shook my head at him. ‘You lucky tom. Next time, I’m coming back as a cat,’ I told him, and added, ‘with a besotted owner, of course, to provide creature comforts like grub, warmth and fuss.’
The ears twitched, taking it all in, but he decided it wasn’t worth lifting an eyelid for another look.
I shrugged into a thick parka, found flashlight and gloves, then followed Georgia’s example from last night and put on wellies.
Outside, the night, still as dark as the grave, was not a place to linger. The wind was high and howling. It carried tiny, hard-packed balls of frozen snow that smashed against my cheeks, making my nose and eyes run with the extreme cold.
I did a shuffling trot – anything faster and I’d risk finding myself flat on my back – across the yard to the brick outhouses.
Snow had piled up against the heavy old wooden door and I had to drag it open, fighting against the wind that threatened to slam it shut again. Once inside, I gave up the hopeless struggle to close it from the inside and let the wind have a field day batting it back and forth. I went over to the workbench and dropped on to my knees, feeling underneath for the sack of cat litter. Gripping it by the top corner, I dragged it free and out into the middle of the floor. The granules had, of course, done the job I’d expected and shifted around the package, but the action of moving the bag free of the bench had caused the package to slip further. And reaching down only allowed more and more granules to do their own thing.
I ended up with my arm rammed inside the bag as far as my armpit, scrabbling about to get a grip on the paper surrounding the package. A good deal of the litter ended up on the cobbled floor of the outhouse, but it could stay there. At six o’clock in the morning, in brass-monkey weather, no way was I going to linger sweeping it all up.
Renewing my fight with the wind, I secured the door and slipped and slid back to the warmth of the cottage. How true it was that you couldn’t appreciate the sun if you hadn’t experienced a downpour of rain – I gasped my way back into the kitchen and thankfully shut out the darkness and the snow.
Despite wearing gloves, my fingers were numb as I fumbled and struggled to fill up the kettle and get it on to the Rayburn hob. There was no reaction at all from Leo – head down, dreaming deeply, he’d gone to cat land.
Clutching a reviving mug of tea, I made a mental note that if I had to go out today, I must make sure I set the boiler to provide daylong heat for him. Well, if Annabel was still living here, that’s what she’d do – she’s a complete softie as regards Leo. However, since Annabel’s busy looking out for Jeffrey, all Leo’s got now is me to look out for him. I couldn’t let him down.
I leaned, shivering, against the Rayburn and drank the tea. Then, having thawed out a bit, I made a second mug and took that and the package through to the office. In appearance, it was like a shoebox, but not really oblong – more of a square. I found a small pair of scissors and set about cutting off the brown paper wrapping. It had been securely bound by sticky tape and resisted being ripped off. But after a couple of minutes, the tape gave up the struggle against cold steel and came apart.
Beneath the brown paper wrapping was a sturdy cardboard box, also securely sealed with parcel tape. I tried giving it a shake but whatever was inside must have been wedged tightly and it gave me no clue whatsoever. My thoughts scrambled around as to what I might release once I’d got it opened. Something lethal? A bomb? Not ticking. A poisonous spider? Not likely. Besides – I brought a halt to my fancies – John Dunston had specifically left it for me, and that had been conditional upon my attendance at his funeral. He had been testing my feelings out for a certain level of respect – loyalty perhaps; he wasn’t intending to harm me. In fact, from the tone of his letter, he’d been asking for my help in bringing his murderer to justice. No, there was nothing harmful inside the box.
I cut away the restraining tape and opened the box. As I’d expected, whatever it was had been wrapped up tightly before being placed inside. All I could see so far was what looked like some sort of absorbent material … terry towelling? It was predominantly white but easing it out of the box with the end of my biro, I could see there was a stripe of colour running through it – blue. Seeing that colour emerging set bells ringing in my mind. I’d been told about this – a good while back – before the St Moritz trip – and now, here it was lying on my desk. It belonged to Keith Whellan, Mousey Brown’s horsebox driver.
I took a deep breath and pulled out the rest of the material.
There was something hard and solid in the middle, and as I let the towelling fall away, I could see streaks of dried blood and a heavy glass ashtray.
Caution sent me to the kitchen and I returned with a pair of rubber gloves. Lifting the ashtray from the nest of towelling, I could also see that around the base was a crust of dried blood. Ripping a sheet of A4 from the printer, I placed the ashtray down on it. Hooking my foot around the leg of my chair, I pulled it out, sat down and studied the unlikely object. If I’d been offered a million pounds – and a million chances – I could never have guessed what the box contained.
The more I stared at it, the more peculiar the whole situation appeared. Why had John gone to the trouble of sealing it inside the box and leaving those precise instructions with the solicitor? Obviously, he’d needed to be certain of my commitment to find the killer; that much was clear. But an ashtray? He’d said it was proof – a clue, then – to the killer’s identity. The crust of blood on the bottom edge was old, dried on and iron-hard. To remove it would take either a long soak in hot water or even scraping off with a knife.
The sorry tale it told was that the blood would most likely have come from a wound on the victim. OK, it was the most rational conclusion. But, if so, that simply raised two further questions. Who was that victim and who was the killer? And I had no answer at all to either question.
Stripping off my rubber gloves, I left the bloodied ashtray sitting on my desk and went upstairs to have a bath and a shave. Later still, having distractedly scrambled a couple of eggs and washed them down with a coffee, my mind churnin
g over the puzzle, I went back into the office. Although I’d mulled over the whole business from several angles, I was still at a complete loss.
Staring moodily at the ashtray, I changed tack in my approach. John would not have gone to all this trouble if he’d not been sure I could fathom out the truth behind it. So, I put myself in his shoes. What had he thought as he parcelled it up so securely? I’d always thought the roots of this went down deep. Did the ashtray have any connection to an old case that had a bearing on a death? Possibly a case I’d solved in the past? I was sure John had been killed because he knew too much or had witnessed something damning.
I scrutinized the ashtray for a long time, thinking through the previous three cases. They were linked – I was sure they were – in a danse macabre. Like a bizarre game of deadly dominoes. As each victim fell dead, so the next one followed. Mirroring real life, one action led inexorably on to the next. And just as no one lives in an isolated vacuum, the actions all involved other people: families, friends, enemies.
If I was on the right track, what was needed was an appraisal of any ashtrays I had seen, at any time, during any one of those previous cases.
The door pushed open a fraction and a huge ginger head slid round, green eyes wide, accusing, their message clear, accompanied by a strident eardrum-blasting bellow, the sort only a cat of Leo’s size could produce: the expected breakfast had not been handed out.
I dutifully got up. ‘Sorry, mate. I forgot.’
He was definitely not about to forgive me. The disgusted look in his emerald eyes conveyed what he thought of me.
However, seeing that he had my full attention, he stalked off in front, tail pointing to the ceiling, and took up a position next to his empty dish in the kitchen. I tipped in some cat food and refilled his water bowl. Then poured a further coffee, hoping it might aid my brain cells. I made it black and very strong and added a spoonful of honey for good measure before returning to my desk.
OK, if my deductions were right, I needed to cast back and analyse the first time I’d been roped in – chained with a steel hawser, more like – to a deadly situation from which I could not simply walk away. At the heart of it was the proposed danger to my disabled half-sister, Silvie. Nothing like the threat of danger to your family to ensure that when your strings were pulled, you jumped to the correct height – whatever height that might escalate to in the end.
Dead Heat Page 20
