Death Warmed Up

by John Paxton Sheriff

  ‘Sure, take your time,’ Jones said. ‘As long as there’s brandy in the bottle.’

  Behind his paint-stained, wire-framed glasses, the bearded Scot’s eyes became thoughtful.

  ‘Scott was in the army,’ he said. ‘Royal Engineers, Paras, doing very well indeed. But something went wrong for him in Beirut. I don’t know the full story, but he killed an innocent man, decided enough was enough and at thirty he walked away and spent the next five years wandering aimlessly downhill in a hot climate.’

  ‘Cornwall?’

  It was Wick’s turn to grin. ‘Actually, it was Australia. Jack Scott did everything from painting fences in the outback to conducting coach loads of tourists around Alice Springs and selling accident insurance on the streets of Sydney. Luckily for me, it didn’t work out. One rain-swept night soon after he returned to the UK he strolled into a spit-and-sawdust pub on the glistening streets of Brixton and saved me from a savage beating by three huge Yardies.’

  ‘So why were you being thumped? I suppose it was them not takin’ kindly to racist remarks made by a man with a funny accent – and maybe wearin’ a skirt.’

  ‘A remark of that nature may have been uttered by me in the heat of the altercation but, no, it started because they were desirous of making a wee profit from my wheeling and dealing.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Driving stolen Mercedes saloons from Germany to Liverpool for a bent detective sergeant whose contacts had no scruples but very fat wallets.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I remember hearin’ about that one. Scott ended up involved, didn’t he?’

  ‘Eventually. I told him about it that night, in an evil smelling public toilet where we were groaning into a cracked basin stained with our blood.’

  ‘Cue violins, eh? But the scam didn’t last, did it?’

  ‘For him, no. I think it was conscience. He opted out and began to frequent the American Bar on Lime Street where he habitually sank into dark, alcoholic brooding. The owner was an ex-boxer.’

  Jones nodded. ‘I know him. Or did. He fell off his perch.’

  ‘As we all do, eventually, some of us with nary a flutter. Anyway, this former pugilist told me my friend was heading for a fall and so I led Jack next door to see our private investigator friends.’

  ‘Short fat and greasy. An’ that’s just the gaffer, Manny Yates, with his waistcoats and those same skinny cigars you’re always suckin’ on.’

  ‘Schimmelpennincks. At the time Manny was looking for a man with experience in investigative techniques. Jack had been in the army’s Special Investigation Branch, so he was a natural.’

  ‘So if he was good, why isn’t he still there with Manny?’

  ‘He stayed five years, which I suppose he considered long enough. Then he drifted away, discovered military modelling and a skill he hadn’t known he possessed.’

  ‘And along the way he also discovered Sian Laidlaw.’

  ‘I imagine there’s a crude connotation to what you’re suggesting,’ Wick said, ‘which I will ignore. The truth is, that meeting with Sian in an Austrian ski lodge is the event that not only changed Scott’s life—’

  He broke off.

  On the other side of the white door with its black iron hinges, a phone had begun to ring.

  Seven

  ‘He did it with one hand,’ I said, ‘while holding the phone with the other.’

  Sian had swished out of the saloon while I was making the call, cheekily flapping the hem of her towelling robe to allow me a brief glimpse of naked thigh. Now she was in the big double bed in the yacht’s only stateroom – or whatever they call bedrooms on boats, I thought – and was sitting back against plumped-up pillows, her face shiny with grease. Or expensive night cream.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’

  ‘I’m wondering,’ I said, ‘if other portions of your anatomy have had the same tender care as your face.’

  ‘You mean those portions you cannot reach?’

  ‘Cannot, or must not?’

  ‘Proscribed, is a good word. Another is verboten. Sounds much more severe. What did Calum say?’

  ‘He said Prudence Wise has an excellent website. Her Liverpool address and phone number are there on her contact page.’ I flapped the scrap of paper on which I’d hastily scrawled the details. ‘She lives in Seaforth, t’other side of Bootle.’

  ‘As does my sister.’

  I blinked, then cautiously sat on the corner of the bed.

  ‘We haven’t been in touch with Siobhan since that trouble she had when we were playing detective up in Scotland.’

  ‘You haven’t.’ Sian reached across, picked up her mobile, waggled it. ‘We talk from time to time.’

  ‘Then in that case,’ I said, ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘I’m ahead of you. Two birds with one stone, that sort of thing?’

  ‘What’s she got, house or flat?’

  ‘End terrace, with three bedrooms. And she’d love to see us, put us up for a few days. I’ll sort that end out, but you know what you must do?’

  ‘Well, as those worldly possessions we brought with us or have acquired while here will be shipped out tomorrow, there has to be somebody there at the other end when they eventually arrive.’

  ‘That’s easily done. You get back to Calum, I’ll phone Siobhan.’

  ‘Er, yes, but on one condition.’

  Sian slid down in the bed, yawned, snuggled into the pillows.

  ‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ she said. ‘If you can tell me what’s the opposite of verboten, I’ll consider—’

  ‘Erlaubt,’ I said, and with a broad wink I headed for the bathroom.

  Or, I thought, whatever it is they call them on boats.

  Eight

  One week later

  ‘Considering the length of time we’ve been together,’ I said, ‘in what might be described – a little indelicately – as an on and off relationship, I think we should be thinking seriously about marriage. Ours, I mean. I’m in my fifties. You’re … well, thereabouts. So I think we should do it, get married, tie the knot, splice the mainbrace – something like that, anyway, but I’m sure you know what I mean.’

  Silence.

  Well, not quite. There was some noise, but put it all in a pot and stir it with a wooden spoon and it would still amount to little more than the low kitchen humming of a fridge-freezer.

  The speedometer needle was flickering on sixty-five. Cold rain was pattering the Audi Quattro’s windscreen, combining with the swish of the windscreen wipers to emphasize the warmth and comfort of the speeding car’s interior. The heater control was three-quarters into the red segment, the fan on two – a mere whisper of sound. A jazz CD was playing, just loud enough to be heard. I had an idea it was Stan Getz, one of his slower pieces, equivalent to being stroked with a warm velvet glove. I grinned at the thought. On the wet roads winding through the Welsh hills, even the monotonous hiss of tyres on slick tarmac – carrying with it a subtle warning that care must be taken – couldn’t cut through my mood of quiet contentment.

  After all, I might be pushing hard through a cold autumn evening, but wasn’t this why we’d returned to the UK? Four recognizably different seasons? And didn’t that entail taking the rough with the smooth?

  I glanced sideways. Sian was flat out in the fully-reclined passenger seat. Her feet, snug in bright red socks, were up on the dash above the glove compartment. Zipped up inside a matching fleece, she’d taken off the restraining rubber band and her hair was loose against the seat, behind and around her head, a halo glowing golden in the dim light from the dash. Her eyes were closed.

  I faced front again as the road took the sweeping rise past the T-junction in Capel Curig. The car rocked sideways. Sian rolled against the door with a bump, then stretched and yawned. She cleared her throat. I felt her looking at me. Kept calm. Wondered if she’d heard.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said, her voice soft and warm. Her hand dropped to her side. The seat’s back rose slowly
and smoothly to forty-five degrees. I thought of Frankenstein’s monster awakening, and pushed my lips forward to ward off a grin.

  ‘You fell asleep when we left the coast,’ I said. ‘You’ve just missed Capel Curig. Not that far to go now. One more lake. A few twists and turns.’

  ‘I’ve been dreaming.’

  ‘That’s what we do, when we sleep.’

  ‘Let me refine that. It was either a beautiful dream, or a scary nightmare.’ She chuckled. ‘I thought I heard you propose, Jack. Ask me to marry you, all of it mixed up with something to do with sailors and grog. That’s what I thought I heard.’

  I watched the headlights sweeping across dripping hedges, trees caught in the main beam, tossing in the wind.

  ‘And if it was something more than a thought,’ I said, ‘something that might have to be taken seriously, how would you classify it? Scary nightmare, or beautiful dream?’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t really matter, does it?’ she said, and I flashed her a glance. She winked at me. ‘Because, actually, I wasn’t asleep. I’ve done little more than doze. Enjoying the ride.’ She giggled. ‘I always do, don’t I?’

  ‘Invariably.’

  ‘And not infrequently.’ She reached across, rubbed my arm, squeezed it gently. ‘I was awake, Jack, so I know exactly what you said. And I was touched by that tremor of emotion in your voice. What was it, undying passion or chronic nervousness? Anyway, I don’t know why it’s taken you so long.’

  ‘From Seaforth in Liverpool to where we are now in North Wales,’ I said, ‘has taken us little more than an hour.’

  ‘But from a certain Austrian ski slope where a maker of toy soldiers met his young – youngish – Soldier Blue, it’s taken us all of … what? How long have we been together?’

  ‘I’d say five or six years. Could be much longer. I’ll ask Calum. But surely you know the old saying?’

  ‘Which one? An Englishman needs time? Which is always a convenient excuse.’

  ‘I was thinking of better late than never.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s a double-edged sword, that one – or something. I mean, a little bit late’s all right, but some people leave things so long they miss the boat.’

  ‘And is that what I’ve done?’

  There was a long silence. I negotiated a few more tricky bends without seeing them, without slowing. Felt the car’s rear end slide just a little, corrected it without thinking.

  ‘I think we should leave this intensely personal conversation,’ Sian said at last, ‘till later on this evening. I mean, I know you’re an excellent driver, but my answer – either way – could leave you emotionally unsettled. That would be dangerous on these roads. We might be forced to continue our little talk while hanging upside down from our seat belts in a dark, dank ditch.’

  ‘Reluctantly, I agree. Another maxim I always go by – along with the better late than never bit of nonsense – is never make important decisions during the hours of darkness. They’re best left until dawn has well and truly broken. With that in mind, let’s change the subject to safer ground. Have you got any ideas on the mysterious disappearance of Prudence Wise?’

  ‘Only that it’s not mysterious. We were at Siobhan’s for a week; we knocked on Pru’s door several times and got no answer. But why were we expecting her to be there? After all, you phoned Louis Romero after a couple of those fruitless visits, and he told you Pru’s hired car had definitely been logged passing through customs into Spain. If she didn’t take a flight from Malaga, as I’d suggested, well, she’s still there somewhere and southern Spain’s a long way from Seaforth.’

  ‘And Bryn Aur, nestling beneath the Glyders,’ I said, ‘is a long way from Gibraltar. What I mean by that is that now we’re very close to home, Bernie Rickman’s threats seem laughable.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll soon be in our own stone fortress and safe from all those with evil intentions,’ Sian mused softly.

  The possessive pronoun, so casually uttered, set my heart a-fluttering. There was also something in her voice that told me, without glancing at her, that she was looking to her left across the stone walls that separated the road down which we were now cruising from the valley of Afon Ogwen and beyond that the stone farmhouse known as Bryn Aur. All was in darkness. The lowering clouds that were the source of the incessant rain cut out moon and stars, but that valley was in her thoughts and mine and, when I slowed, turned left and took the big car dipping down the road to double back and along the river towards home, I was engulfed by a wave of emotion that was shocking in its unexpectedness and brought with it the threat of tears.

  We had been away for more than a year.

  Homecoming had never felt so good.

  But when I took the car rocking across the bridge and the heavy tyres crunched up onto the stone yard fronting the house, that wonderful feeling of well-being was shattered just as easily and as swiftly as a hammer shatters fragile glass.

  A new Vauxhall Astra was parked under the big oak tree. Rain dripping from the tree’s branches and dancing leaves was splashing onto the bonnet where it was quickly and perceptibly transformed into thin vapour that rose into the cold air to be whipped away by the wind.

  I pulled to a halt, applied the handbrake. Sat back. Looked out of the window and whistled softly through my teeth.

  ‘That engine’s still warm,’ I said, turning a puzzled glance towards Sian and stating the obvious. ‘Now who the hell’s come calling, when not a living soul other than your sister knew we were coming home today?’

  The house, set back against the almost vertical hillside, was in darkness. Not a sound could be heard but the soft patter of rain on stone, leaves, metal, the faint crackle as the Quattro’s engine began to cool.

  ‘Jack, don’t do that. You’ll have the alarm howling, irate farmers in wellies rushing round here with loaded shotguns.’

  I was out of the Quattro, peering in through the Astra’s passenger window. Ignoring the warning, I tried the passenger door. Locked. I kicked at the front tyre, shook my head.

  ‘Welsh farmers don’t rush. And there isn’t a house within half a mile. Anyway, who takes any notice of car alarms?’ I stepped back, hands on hips. ‘What the hell’s going on, Sian?’

  ‘You seem to be stuck in a groove with that question. Nothing’s going on, other than it’s raining and I’m getting wet. If you’re going to stand there admiring that thing, throw me your keys.’

  ‘Haven’t got them. There’s only one set, and Calum’s been here. He’ll have left them under the stone pot by the porch.’

  ‘Yes, for nosy strangers in shiny new Vauxhall Astras.’

  ‘Who even now are lurking in the dark living room waiting to waylay us. As if.’

  Sian had slipped on a pair of sandals, left the Quattro ahead of me and had been waiting by the front door. I walked across the yard’s wet stone flagging, reached her as she tipped the mossy stone pot with its dying geraniums, found the keys. Sian pulled a face. Her hand was wet with leaves and mud. She looked around for something to wipe it on, shrugged, held it daintily to one side as she switched the keys to her other hand and opened the door. She pushed. It swung wide. Something tinkled.

  The porch’s red and black quarry tiles were lost in the gloom. Sian stepped inside out of the rain, pulled the door away from the wall, bent to look behind it

  ‘Whoever it is, they must have shoved these through the letter box,’ she said. She held up a set of car keys. They jingled, ghostly chains clanking in the dark.

  ‘Go on in, get the coffee going,’ I said. ‘I’m already wet so I might as well have a look, see what’s what.’

  I took the keys, waited for her to turn away and go on into the house. She shook her head. In the gloom, her face looked pale.

  ‘No…No, I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘I don’t really think there’s anyone in there.’

  ‘No,’ Sian said. ‘Neither do I – and that’s what bothers me.’

  ‘And the car’s empty.’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes.’

  ‘So…?’

  ‘Just hurry up. Or, better still, as I’m wet too….’

  I saw the uneasiness in her eyes, saw the effort she made to replace it with the steely look I knew so well; saw the effort fail. I touched her hand briefly, turned away. A gust of wind blew icy rain into my unbuttoned shirt collar. I hunched my shoulders and trotted across to the car, aware of Sian’s feet slapping wetly behind me. I pointed the key fob, tried the remote. The car’s lights flashed, and there was the reassuring clunk of the central locking. The interior light came on. Sian moved quickly. She opened the driver’s door and slipped inside. I watched her grasp the wheel with both hands, look around, slide a hand across the top of the dash then stretch across to the passenger side and open the glove compartment. She pulled out a grained faux-leather folder. Flipped it open.

  ‘Car’s handbook, documents. Nothing else.’

  I nodded. Heavy droplets from the oak tree plopped onto my head as I opened the rear door, leaned into the new-car smell; into emptiness. Slid inside. Felt along the floor, twisted awkwardly to feel around under the front seats.

  When I straightened, Sian had turned to watch.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Try the boot.’

  ‘Yes, I will, and there’ll be nothing there. Do you know why?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve worked it out. This car has obviously been bought by a local farmer. It’s been in to the main dealers for its first service, the farmer told them when they’d finished to deliver it and pop the keys through the letterbox.’

  Sian visibly relaxed, picked up the story.

  ‘The farmer always deals with a local garage,’ she said. ‘That means the main dealer doesn’t know him from Adam—’

  ‘And a lot of Welsh farms, in the same area, have similar names,’ I finished. ‘Or they sound similar, if you happen to be English.’

  ‘Right car, wrong farm,’ Sian said. ‘Or something.’ She grinned. ‘Look in the boot, Jack. I’ll get the coffee on.’