by P. D. James
'And your people have found nothing at the house?'
Harding looked at Sowerby. It was a question they preferred not to answer and one which should not have been asked. After a pause, Sowerby answered: 'Clean. No radio, no documents, no evidence of trade craft. If Amphlett did intend to do a bunk, she cleaned up efficiently before she left.'
Bill Harding said: 'OK, if she did panic and was getting out, the only mystery is why so precipitous? If she killed Robarts and thought that the police were getting close, that might have tipped the balance. But they weren't getting close. It could, of course, have been a genuine boat trip, and a genuine accident. Or, their own side could have killed them both. Once the Larksoken plan was obsolete they were expendable. What were the comrades going to do with them, for God's sake? Fit them out with new personalities, new papers, infiltrate them into a power station in Germany? They were hardly worth the trouble, I should have thought.'
Dalgliesh said: 'Is there any evidence that it was an accident? Has any ship reported bow damage in the fog, a possible collision?'
Sowerby said: 'None so far. I doubt whether there will be. But if Amphlett really was part of the organization we suspect recruited her, they'd have no compunction in providing a couple of involuntary martyrs for the cause. What sort of people did she think she was dealing with? The fog would have helped them, but they could have run down the boat without the fog. Or, for that matter, taken them off and killed them elsewhere. But to fake an accident was the sensible course particularly given the bonus of the fog. I'd have done it that way myself.' And he would, thought Dalgliesh. He would have done it without compunction.
Harding turned to Mair. He said: 'You never had the least suspicion of her?'
'You asked me that before. None. I was surprised - a little irritated even - that she preferred not to stay as my PA when I got the new job, and even more surprised at the reason. Jonathan Reeves was hardly the man I thought she'd have chosen.'
Sowerby said: 'But it was clever. An ineffectual man, one she could dominate. Not too intelligent. Already in love with her. She could have chucked him whenever she chose and he wouldn't have the wit to know why. And why should you suspect? Sexual attraction is irrational anyway.'
There was a pause, then he added: 'Did you ever see her, the other girl, Amy? I'm told that she did visit the power station on one of those open days but I don't suppose you'd remember her.'
Mair's face was like a white mask. He said: 'I did see her once, I think. Blonde dyed hair, a chubby, rather pretty face. She was carrying the child. What will happen to him, incidentally? Or is it a she?'
Sowerby said: 'Taken into care, I suppose, unless they can trace the father or the grandparents. He'll probably end up fostered or adopted. I wonder what the hell his mother thought she was doing.'
Harding spoke with sudden vehemence: 'Do they think? Ever? No faith, no stability, no family affection, no loyalty. They're blown like paper with every wind. Then when they do find something to believe in, something to give them the illusion that they're important, what do they choose? Violence, anarchy, hatred, murder.'
Sowerby looked at him, surprised and a little amused. Then he said: 'Ideas some of them think worth dying for. In that, of course, lies the problem.'
'Only because they want to die. If you can't cope with living look for an excuse, a cause you can kid yourself is worth dying for and indulge your death wish. With luck you can take a dozen or so poor sods with you, people who can cope with living, who don't want to die. And there's always the ultimate self-deception, the final arrogance. Martyrdom. Lonely and inadequate fools all over the world will clench their fists and shout your name and carry placards with your picture and start looking round themselves for someone to bomb and shoot and maim. And that girl, Amphlett. She hadn't even the excuse of poverty. Dad a senior army officer, security, a good education, privilege, money. She'd had it all.'
It was Sowerby who replied. He said: 'We know what she had. What we can't know is what she didn't have.'
Harding ignored him. 'And what did they expect to do with Larksoken if they did take it over? They wouldn't have lasted for more than half an hour. They'd have needed experts, programmers.'
Mair said: 'I think you can take it they knew what and who they'd need and had planned how they could get them.'
'Into the country? How?' 'By boat, perhaps.'
Sowerby looked at him and then said a little impatiently: 'They didn't do it. They couldn't have done it. And it's our job to see that they never can do it.'
There was a moment's silence, then Mair said: 'I suppose Amphlett was the dominant partner. I wonder what arguments or what inducements she used. The girl -Amy - struck me as an instinctive creature, not likely to die for a political theory. But that is obviously a superficial judgement. I only saw her once.'
Sowerby said: 'Without knowing them we can't be sure who was the dominant partner. But I'd say it was almost certainly Amphlett. Nothing is known or suspected about Camm. She was probably recruited as a runner. Amphlett must have had a contact in the organization, must have met him occasionally if only to receive instructions. But they'd be careful never to get in touch directly. Camm probably received the coded messages setting out time and place for the next meeting and passed them on. As for her reasons, she found life unsatisfactory no doubt.'
Bill Harding lunged over to the table and poured himself a large whisky. His voice was thick as if he were drunk.
'Life has always been unsatisfactory for most people for most of the time. The world isn't designed for our satisfaction. That's no reason for trying to pull it down about our ears.'
Sowerby smiled his sly superior smile. He said easily: 'Perhaps they thought that's what we're doing.'
Fifteen minutes later, Dalgliesh left with Mair. As they stood unlocking their cars he looked back and saw that the janitor was still waiting at the open door.
Mair said: 'Making sure that we actually leave the premises. What extraordinary people they are! I wonder how they got on to Caroline. There seemed no point in asking as they made it obvious that they had no intention of saying.'
'No, they wouldn't say. Almost certainly they got a tip-off from the security services in Germany.'
'And this house. How on earth do they find these places? D'you suppose that they own it, borrow it, rent it or just break into it?'
Dalgliesh said: 'It probably belongs to one of their own officers, retired, I imagine. He, or she, lets them have a spare key for such an occasional use.'
'And now they'll be packing up, I suppose. Dusting down the furniture, checking for fingerprints, finishing up the food, turning off the power. And in an hour no one will know that they were ever there. The perfect temporary tenants. They've got one thing wrong, though. There wasn't a physical relationship between Amy and Caroline. That's nonsense.'
He spoke with such extraordinary strength and conviction, almost with outrage, that Dalgliesh wondered for a moment whether Caroline Amphlett had been more than his PA. Mair must surely have sensed what his companion was thinking but he neither explained nor denied. Dalgliesh said: 'I haven't congratulated you yet on your new job.'
Mair had slipped into his seat and turned on the engine.
But the car door was still open and the silent warder at the door still waited patiently.
He said: 'Thank you. These tragedies at Larksoken have taken away some of the immediate satisfaction, but it's still the most important job I'm ever likely to hold.' Then, as Dalgliesh turned away, he said: 'So you think we still have a killer alive on the headland.'
'Don't you?'
But Mair didn't reply. Instead he asked: 'If you were Rickards, what would you do now?'
'I'd concentrate on trying to find out whether Blaney or Theresa left Scudder's Cottage that Sunday night. If either of them did, then I think my case would be complete. It isn't one that I'd be able to prove, but it would stand up in logic and I think that it would be the truth.'
Dalgliesh
drove first out of the drive but Mair, accelerating sharply, overtook him on the first stretch of straight road and remained ahead. The thought of following the Jaguar all the way back to Larksoken was, for some reason, intolerable. But there was no danger of it; Dalgliesh even drove like a policeman, inside, if only just inside, the speed limit. And by the time they reached the main road Mair could no longer see the lights of the Jaguar in his mirror. He drove almost automatically, eyes fixed ahead, hardly aware of the black shapes of the tossing trees as they rushed past like an accelerated film, of the cat's-eyes unfolding in an unbroken stream of light. He was expecting a clear road on the headland and, cresting a low ridge, saw almost too late the lights of an ambulance. Violently twisting the wheel, he bumped off the road and braked on the grass verge, then sat there listening to the silence. It seemed to him that emotions which for the last three hours he had rigorously suppressed were buffeting him as the wind buffeted the car. He had to discipline his thoughts, to arrange and make sense of these astonishing feelings which horrified him by their violence and irrationality. Was it possible that he could feel relief at her death, at a danger averted, a possible embarrassment prevented, and yet, at the same time, be torn as if his sinews were being wrenched apart by a pain and regret so overwhelming that it could only be grief? He had to control himself from beating his head against the wheel of the car. She had been so uninhibited, so gallant, so entertaining. And she had kept faith with him. He hadn't been in touch with her since their last meeting on the Sunday afternoon of the murder and she had made no attempt to contact him by letter or telephone. They had agreed that the affair must end and that each would keep silent. She had kept her part of the bargain, as he had known she would. And now she was dead. He spoke her name aloud, 'Amy, Amy, Amy.' Suddenly he gave a gasp which tore at the muscles of his chest as if he were in the first throes of a heart attack and felt the blessed releasing tears flow down his face. He hadn't cried since he was a boy and even now, as the tears ran like rain and he tasted their surprising saltiness on his lips, he told himself that these minutes of emotion were good and therapeutic. He owed them to her and, once over, the tribute of grief paid, he would be able to put her out of his mind as he had planned to put her out of his heart. It was only thirty minutes later, when switching on the engine, that he gave thought to the ambulance and wondered which of the few inhabitants of the headland was being rushed to hospital.
As the two ambulance men wheeled the stretcher down the garden path the wind tore at the corner of the red blanket and billowed it into an arc. The straps held it down but Blaney almost flung himself across Theresa's body as if desperately shielding her from something more threatening than the wind. He shuffled crab-like down the path beside her, half bent, his hand holding hers under the blanket. It felt hot and moist and very small and it seemed to him that he was aware of every delicate bone. He wanted to whisper reassurance but terror had dried his throat and when he tried to speak his jaw jabbered as if palsied. And he had no comfort to give. There was a too-recent memory of another ambulance, another stretcher, another journey. He hardly dared look at Theresa in case he saw on her face what he had seen on her mother's; that look of pale, remote acceptance which meant that she was already moving away from him, from all the mundane affairs of life, even from his love, into a shadow land where he could neither follow nor was welcome. He tried to find reassurance in the memory of Dr Entwhistle's robust voice.
'She'll be all right. It's appendicitis. We'll get her to hospital straight away. They'll operate tonight and with luck she'll be back with you in a few days. Not to do the housework mind; we'll discuss all that later. Now, let's get to the telephone. And stop panicking, man. People don't die of appendicitis.'
But they did die. They died under the anaesthetic, they died because peritonitis intervened, they died because the surgeon made a mistake. He had read of these cases. He was without hope.
As the stretcher was gently lifted and slid with easy expertise into the ambulance he turned and looked back at Scudder's Cottage. He hated it now, hated what it had done to him, what it had made him do. Like him, it was accursed. Mrs Jago was standing at the door holding Anthony in her unpractised arms with a twin standing silently on each side. He had telephoned the Local Hero for help and George Jago had driven her over immediately to stay with the children until he returned. There had been no one else to ask. He had telephoned Alice Mair at Martyr's Cottage but all he had got was the answerphone. Mrs Jago lifted Anthony's hand and waved it in a gesture of goodbye, then bent to speak to the twins. Obediently they too waved. He climbed into the ambulance and the doors were firmly shut.
The ambulance bumped and gently swayed up the lane, then accelerated as it reached the narrow headland road to Lydsett. Suddenly it swerved and he was almost thrown from his seat. The paramedic sitting opposite him cursed.
'Some bloody fool going too fast.'
But he didn't reply. He sat very close to Theresa, his hand still in hers, and found himself praying as if he could batten on the ears of the God he hadn't believed in since he was seventeen. 'Don't let her die. Don't punish her because of me. I'll believe. I'll do anything. I can change, be different. Punish me but not her. Oh God, let her live.'
And suddenly he was standing again in that dreadful little churchyard, hearing the drone of Father McKee's voice, with Theresa at his side, her hand still cold in his. The earth was covered with synthetic grass but there was one mound left bare and he saw again the newly sliced gold of the soil. He hadn't known that Norfolk earth could be so rich a colour. A white flower had fallen from one of the wreaths, a small, tortured, unrecognized bud with a pin through the wrapped stalk and he was seized with an almost uncontrollable compulsion to pick it up before it was shovelled with the earth into the grave, to take it home, put it in water and let it die in peace. He had to hold himself tautly upright to prevent himself bending to retrieve it. But he hadn't dared, and it had been left there to be smothered and obliterated under the first clods.
He heard Theresa whisper and bent so low to listen that he could smell her breath. 'Daddy, am I going to die?'
'No. No.'
He almost shouted the word, a howled defiance of death, and was aware of the paramedic half rising to his feet. He said quietly: 'You heard what Dr Entwhistle said. It's just appendicitis.'
'I want to see Father McKee.'
'Tomorrow. After the operation. I'll tell him. He'll visit you. I won't forget. I promise. Now lie still.'
'Daddy, I want him now, before the operation. There's something I have to tell him.'
'Tell him tomorrow.'
'Can I tell you? I have to tell someone now.'
He said almost fiercely: 'Tomorrow, Theresa. Leave it till tomorrow.' And then, appalled by his selfishness, he whispered: 'Tell me, darling, if you must,' and closed his eyes so that she should not see the horror, the hopelessness.
She whispered: 'That night Miss Robarts died. I crept out to the abbey ruins. I saw her running into the sea. Daddy, I was there.'
He said hoarsely: 'It doesn't matter. You don't have to tell me any more.'
'But I want to tell. I ought to have told you before. Please, Daddy.'
He put his other hand over hers. He said: 'Tell me.'
'There was someone else there, too. I saw her walking over the headland towards the sea. It was Mrs Dennison.'
Relief flowed through him, wave after wave, like a warm cleansing summer sea. After a moment's silence he heard her voice again: 'Daddy, are you going to tell anyone, the police?'
'No,' he said. 'I'm glad you've told me but it isn't important. It doesn't mean anything. She was just taking a walk in the moonlight. I'm not going to tell.'
'Not even about me being on the headland that night?'
'No,' he said firmly, 'not even that. Not yet, anyway. But we'll talk about it, what we ought to do, after the operation.'
And for the first time he could believe that there would be a time for them after the operation.
Mr Copley's study was at the back of the Old Rectory, looking out over the unkempt lawn and the three rows of wind-crippled bushes which the Copleys called the shrubbery. It was the only room in the rectory which Meg would not dream of entering without first knocking and it was accepted as his private place as if he were still in charge of a parish and needing a quiet sanctum to prepare his weekly sermon or counsel those parishioners who sought his advice. It was here that each day he read Morning Prayer and Evensong, his only congregation his wife and Meg, whose low feminine voices would make the responses and read alternate verses of the psalms. On her first day with them he had said gently but without embarrassment: 'I say the two main offices every day in my study, but please don't feel that you need to attend unless you wish to.'
She had chosen to attend, at first from politeness but later because this daily ritual, the beautiful, half-forgotten cadences, seducing her into belief, gave a welcome shape to the day. And the study itself, of all the rooms in the solidly ugly but comfortable house, seemed to represent an inviolable security, a great rock in a weary land against which all the rancorous, intrusive memories of school, the petty irritations of daily living, even the horror of the Whistler and the menace of the power station beat in vain. She doubted whether it had greatly changed since the first Victorian rector had taken possession. One wall was lined with books, a theological library which she thought Mr Copley now rarely consulted. The old mahogany desk was usually bare and Meg suspected that he spent most of his time in the easy chair which looked out over the garden. Three walls were covered with pictures; the rowing eight of his university days with ridiculously small caps above the grave moustached young faces; the ordinands of his theological college; insipid watercolours in golden mounts, the record by some Victorian ancestor of his grand tour; etchings of Norwich Cathedral, the nave at Winchester, the great octagon of Ely. To one side of the ornate Victorian fireplace was a single crucifix. It seemed to Meg to be very old and probably valuable but she had never liked to ask. The body of Christ was a young man's body, stretched taut in its last agony, the open mouth seeming to shout in triumph or defiance at the God who had deserted him. Nothing else in the study was powerful or disturbing; furniture, objects, pictures all spoke of order, of certainty, of hope. Now, as she knocked and listened for Mr Copley's gentle 'Come in', it occurred to her that she was seeking comfort as much from the room itself as from its occupant.
