Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  She leaned into me, gave me a soft kiss. ‘Life isn’t easy, is it?’ she whispered, her eyes large and soulful. Right then I knew that she, too, had heard the clang of the same steel door. My arms went round her very tightly and just for a few precious seconds we clung to each other.

  She pulled away first. ‘Must be getting back.’

  ‘Yes.’ I scooped Leo up and walked her to the door.

  Outside the sun was shining. It would be shining all the way for her. I waved goodbye, went back inside the cottage and closed the door.

  For the rest of the day I buried myself in work and, by bedtime, bog-eyed from staring at the computer screen for too long, had finished the penultimate chapter. I said goodnight to Leo and climbed the stairs wearily.

  I slid between cool sheets and all the thoughts I’d kept at bay during the day washed in like a flood tide. I hadn’t wept for years. Not since the horror of Silvie’s birth, not even when Mother died. I was gutted losing her, yes, but pleased for her release from suffering. Tears weren’t appropriate then. They certainly weren’t appropriate now.

  But they flowed.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday morning. Yesterday’s sun was a memory; today it was stair-rodding down. Four things vied for my attention. I wanted to ring Samuel and check on Marriot’s whereabouts. Make a start on the last chapter of the book. Visit Mike’s stables and talk to Ciggie, offer him an incentive to tell me who was the mystery man behind it all. And lastly, I wanted to take Silvie some flowers. No, not wanted to, needed to.

  No contest – I drove to the flower shop.

  She was a beautiful woman, Janine, who owned the shop. I walked through the glass door that tinkled my arrival and found her serene and smiling, surrounded by beautiful blooms. I’d bought Silvie flowers from Janine for many years.

  After countless tries to guess her favourite I’d discovered the right one and I now only bought freesias, white freesias.

  Silvie’s pleasure on seeing them was out of all proportion to the cost of the simple flowers. Undoubtedly it was the exquisite perfume that she adored. But the happiness a bunch gave her couldn’t be bought with money.

  Janine didn’t bother to ask, just selected two dozen of the most perfect blooms and wrapped them skilfully into a bouquet.

  I laid them carefully on the back seat and their delightful scent filled my car. There was so very little I could do for Silvie but this one thing, I knew, would bring her joy.

  It was still pouring when I reached the nursing home. I held the bouquet close to my chest to protect it, dashed from the car to the shelter of the porch and rang the bell.

  A nurse opened the door, recognized me and smiled sympathetically. I felt a twinge of unease.

  ‘Silvie?’

  ‘Not too well, I’m afraid, Mr Radcliffe.’

  Now I was afraid. ‘Can I see her, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  I followed her and went into Silvie’s suite. We crossed the sitting room and walked into the bedroom. The curtains were partially closed, cutting out any strong daylight that might disturb her.

  She lay fast asleep, one hand resting on the pillow alongside her cheek. If you didn’t know her age, you’d have guessed her to be twelve years old. A vulnerable child. It was very quiet in the room – peaceful. The monitor flickered away unalarmed, showing a steady level of progress.

  I tiptoed to the side of her bed, was tempted to take her hand. Like I had taken Annabel’s yesterday – a reassuring gesture. Today it would have had the opposite effect. The nurse must have picked up on what I wanted to do.

  ‘Best not to disturb her, Mr Radcliffe,’ she whispered.

  I nodded.

  ‘She’s in a very deep sleep.’

  I looked down at her familiar loved face. She was so far away from this bed, the room, the here and now. I felt the clutch of fear freezing my guts. I looked up at the nurse.

  ‘Is she in a coma?’

  ‘Well,’ she raised her eyebrows, ‘it’s a natural sleep, but very deep.’

  ‘That’s healing, though, surely?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘but it depends. Silvie is still fighting the virus.’

  ‘But she’s not on oxygen.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t need it right now. She’s breathing adequately for her needs on her own.’

  ‘She looks at peace …’ I swallowed.

  ‘Yes.’ The nurse smiled sympathetically again. Only I didn’t find any comfort in it.

  Very gently, I laid the bouquet of white freesias on the bedside table. Perhaps she would be able to smell the perfume even if she couldn’t see their pure perfection. I badly wanted to kiss her cheek but held myself back.

  ‘Very thoughtful,’ the nurse murmured. ‘I’ll find a vase for them.’ She leaned over and took a sniff. ‘Aren’t they gorgeous.’

  ‘Is it true she’ll be able to smell them even if she’s not awake?’

  ‘It’s one of our five senses. Certainly people in comas are thought to be able to hear, yes. So why not the sense of smell?’

  I nodded and drew away from the bedside. ‘I’ll leave you to look after her – I know you all go the extra mile.’

  ‘Our job, Mr Radcliffe. Our pleasure, too.’

  ‘I’m so very grateful.’ I shook her hand. ‘Let me know if I can do anything, even the smallest thing, to help.’

  ‘We will. Don’t worry about Silvie, we’re doing everything we can. If we need you we will certainly give you a ring.’

  ‘Any time, day, night …’

  ‘Of course.’

  I took a last look at Silvie’s dear face resting on the white pillow close to the white flowers and said a silent prayer.

  I drove home in a sombre mood. I’d virtually lost Annabel and, dear God, I hoped I wasn’t going to lose Silvie as well.

  Once home at Harlequin Cottage I prowled around, poured a stiff drink, downed it in one and eventually went through to the office. Work. That’s what I needed to keep unwelcome thoughts from taking charge.

  I collated all the final shoeboxes of cuttings, photographs and miscellanea, stacking them in chronological order. The job was very nearly done. All I retained was the tape recording made on Saturday night. The personal memories of Walter Bexon were just what I needed to balance the necessary facts and data of Elspeth’s working life. I intended to end the book by showing her as a fully rounded personality, not just an incredibly successful trainer but also a caring woman.

  I thought about Victor’s rosy view of her as a faithful, loyal wife and gritted my teeth. Tempted to expose the more accurate version, I knew it would achieve no good. In fact, it would cause grief to him as his sustaining illusion shattered into pieces. It was because I genuinely liked the man and felt sorry for the way his life had panned out that I’d purposely remained silent about the long-ago facts I’d discovered on the computer about his family.

  Had Victor blustered and taken the stand of denying being Silvie’s father, then yes, probably I would have used my knowledge as ammunition to back Uncle George’s revelation. Would have told Victor that history was repeating itself. That his pain at Silvie’s condition – and as her father it must be ghastly for him; no one living could not feel compassion – had been felt before. Twice over, in fact. Three generations ago in his family line there had been twins born with distressing disabilities akin to my half-sister’s shocking physical state. Both had died in their early teens. But I’d kept quiet. Despite his wealth, Victor was an unhappy, lonely man. It would have been utterly callous to have kicked him further down the dark road of depression.

  So I worked on, using the page-turning material provided by Walter until Leo’s profound yowls reminded me it was getting late. And it certainly was. Hours had passed whilst I’d been glued to the computer. Extremely productive hours, but now I realized I was ravenously hungry. And judging by Leo’s decibel level, so was he.

  I banged a ready-made lasagne into the oven and opened a tin of cat food. Whilst t
he food was cooking I made a mug of strong tea and tore off a sizeable chunk from a breadstick, lathered it in butter and chewed away along with the cat. Washing down the crumbs, I reached for my mobile and dialled Samuel’s number. He answered straight away.

  ‘Hi, Samuel, it’s Harry Radcliffe. We met at Elspeth’s party.’

  ‘Hello, Harry, nice to hear from you. How’s the book going?’

  ‘Going well, thanks. Very close to finishing it.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. So, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve a question to ask. It’s about you and Marriot playing golf.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Last Thursday afternoon, did you play golf together?’

  ‘Now, let me think. Chloe and my wife took off into town for a spending spree. Well, that’s what I call it; they call it “retail therapy”. Amounts to the same thing.’ He gave a deep bass chuckle. ‘Basically, it means spending my money.’

  I laughed with him. ‘Doesn’t seem to bother you much.’

  ‘No, I love my girls. Nothing’s too good for them. They light up my life. You married, Harry?’

  I wasn’t laughing now. ‘Living apart, Samuel.’

  ‘No chance of a reunion?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Too bad. Like I said to you before, it’s all about family.’

  ‘Sure you’re right – only wish I’d got one.’

  ‘Elspeth told me you had a half-sister. Sorry about her situation … tough on you.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ I didn’t want to talk about Silvie, had managed to put the anxiety aside whilst I’d been working. I directed the conversation back to my original question.

  ‘You were telling me about the retail therapy for the girls, but what about you? Did you play golf with Chloe’s husband?’

  ‘No, no, I remember now, he rang. Said he was double booked, did I mind, he was playing with his father. Well, what can you say? Told him to go right ahead, we’d play another time.’ His chuckle vibrated down the line. ‘I had the house to myself for a change, had a lovely snooze. Until the girls came back loaded down with bags of shopping.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be without them.’

  ‘Too right. Hey, we must get together for a drink sometime.’

  ‘It’ll have to be after I finish the book.’

  ‘Oh, sure, business and all that.’

  ‘These next few days should see it done.’

  ‘Great. Looking forward to reading it. Anyway, let me know, eh? We’ll fix a date. Got to go. Bye, Harry.’

  I put down the mobile and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d found out what I needed to know and he hadn’t even queried why I needed the information. But the all-important fact was that Marriot had lied to both Victor and Samuel.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Six o’clock the following morning found me sitting in Mike’s office drinking strong, honey-laced coffee. Outside, his stable yard was buzzing with activity.

  ‘You see my dilemma, Mike? Carl was about to name names, and now he’s dead.’

  ‘Indeed I do. And I’m with you. We don’t want any more deaths. But unless you ask Ciggie, what other leads have you?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Quite. Which means you have to ask him. At the same time, make it immediate and in private. That way nobody else knows you’ve propositioned him. It’s just between the two of you.’

  I nodded. ‘Makes sense. So what do you suggest?’

  He chewed a lip and thought. ‘I’ll keep him back from the ride out, find some extra job that needs doing. Get all the others out in the string. That way you can move in on him safely. It will look a bit odd but the other lads know what a state he can get into taking drugs. He’s headed down the road for sure if he doesn’t pack it up. They’ll probably think I’m just playing safe. Just make sure you’re back in the office before first lot all get back for breakfast.’

  ‘Will do. I’ll make dead sure, don’t worry. If he won’t tell me, well, that’s it, but if he does give me a name, maybe I can crack this business.’

  ‘You reckon it’s this chap Marriot?’

  ‘Yes. When we get in the same room, the hate that pours from him – well, it’s practically tangible. I’ve never felt anything like that from anyone else, ever.’

  ‘But all you’ve done is write his mother’s biography.’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve turned up one thing he won’t like other people knowing but it’s pretty trivial … just a matter of pride really. Nothing damning as far as I can see.’

  ‘Obviously he sees it differently.’ Mike refilled our coffee mugs. ‘At least you’ve about cracked the book. You doubted yourself on that, but I knew you could handle it, so did Annabel.’

  ‘Haaa, Annabel …’

  ‘What about Annabel?’ He slurped coffee and looked at me over the rim of his mug.

  ‘She came to see me, yesterday. Told me she was expecting Jeffrey’s baby.’

  ‘She’s pregnant! That’s great news. Hard on you, mate, but great news for her.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And I am pleased – for her.’

  ‘Life’s all about change, moving forward. You can’t hang on to the past, you’ve got to let go.’

  ‘That’s rich, Mike. You’ve always played it from the view we’d get back together – only a matter of patience. Now you’re saying the opposite.’

  ‘I am, Harry, because things aren’t the same. You can’t get back together; it’s no longer just you and her. It’s now you, her – and Jeffrey’s baby.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah … you’re right. But I’m still trying to get my head round it.’

  ‘’Course you are, because it wasn’t just me who thought it was possible. You thought it was possible, too. Admit it.’

  ‘OK.’ I held up a hand. ‘Yes, I did think so, hoped so …’

  ‘Let go, Harry. You have to now.’

  I drank the last of my coffee. ‘Go and organize your troops; fix it so Ciggie gets left behind.’

  He stood up, clapped me on the shoulder and walked out across the yard. I watched him go. My best friend, longstanding. He was absolutely right – as always.

  I waited and watched the lads mount up, pull out and disappear up the lane towards the gallops. Saw Ciggie, scowling, take a bucket and yard brush and march off. Slipping out of the office door, I followed him.

  I could hear the noise of water flowing into the bucket and followed the sound. I came up behind him.

  ‘Short of cash?’

  He froze. I walked round in front of him. Taking the wad of money originally intended for Carl from my pocket, I brushed my thumb across the edge, riffling the notes. His eyes greedily followed the movement.

  ‘Like the look of this?’

  He glanced quickly at me.

  ‘Are you short of cash?’

  He ran a nervous tongue over his lips. ‘Isn’t everybody?’

  ‘I’m talking about you.’ I flicked a nail against the notes. ‘Want to earn this little lot?’

  He glowered at me under his eyelids. ‘How? Why?’

  ‘Why doesn’t matter. But the money does. You’ve got three seconds … then I withdraw my offer.’

  ‘What yer want?’

  ‘A name.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘The name of the man who hired you.’

  He scoffed and spat on the yard. ‘Go to hell. He’d kill me, he would.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell him? Are you? I’m certainly not. He won’t get to know.’

  Ciggie eyed the money. Need and want played a tug-of-war with fear. And the lad was afraid. It showed in his body language, the sweat standing out on his forehead.

  ‘You don’t know what he’s like. He’s a right vicious bastard. Do anything for money, he would.’

  ‘Kill?’

  He looked down at his boots and jerked his head. ‘Has done.’

  I felt a rise of excitement. If he had been convicted his fingerprints would be on record. I asked casually, ‘Any pr
e-cons? Been inside?’

  ‘Did three years for GBH.’

  I held back from punching the air. ‘Where do you meet? In a pub?’

  ‘Naw, nowhere public. He’s not stupid.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘In my car. Safe, y’see, just the two of us, no witnesses. We have a few beers, talk business. I don’t do no violence, see, I’m just the decoy car driver.’

  ‘There are no witnesses here, Ciggie. Just tell me his name and you can have this money. Just think how much crack this would buy.’

  He cast a furtive glance all around; nobody in sight. ‘Give us it.’ He made a snatch at the wad but I held on.

  ‘His name, Ciggie.’

  ‘Frank Dunston.’ He tugged at the cash.

  Despite the jolt of surprise, I held firm. Not Marriot himself, then. A paid piece of muscle. ‘From?’

  ‘Christ, give it ’ere, will yer.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I said urgently, ‘before the string comes back in.’

  He shot a fearful glance behind him. ‘Grantham, Forge Street.’ He tugged the notes violently and I let go. The information was cheap at the price. The money disappeared instantly into his pocket.

  Leaving him to his scrubbing, I hastily made for the car park and the last spot I’d seen the dark blue Peugeot. It was still parked up in the same place. I tried the driver’s door. My luck was still good. It was unlocked. And inside there were several empty cans of beer. With even more luck, they’d have fingerprints all over them. I whipped my shirt loose at the front to make an improvised sling and, hooking a finger through the hole in the top of each can, I dropped the lot one by one into it.

  I hoofed it back to the office and was safely inside when the string came clattering back. But no one had seen me, thank goodness, which meant hopefully Ciggie’s life wasn’t in danger, and the cans could prove vital evidence.

  I found a plastic carrier bag in Mike’s kitchen drawer and transferred all the cans into it. Then I went out through a side door to where I’d left my own car parked up out of sight. Unlocking the boot, I put the carrier bag inside, tossing an old jacket on top.

  By the time Mike had driven back into the yard after the string, I’d made myself scarce and was back in his kitchen. For Ciggie’s sake I needed to keep out of sight. My sense of fair play dictated that because he had given me the information I’d asked for, I needed to keep my part of the bargain and protect him.