Lennie was a sweet man-child who liked to play on the river with the boats that Mr Jenkins had made for him. He offended no one. He wouldn’t even have known where to begin.
Ah, but it may not be a case of what he did, but more of what he knew. He had been around for a long time and must have seen a great deal. And he couldn’t be trusted to keep quiet about what he knew, especially once the college was swarming with police officers, as it would be once they learned about the two bodies.
‘So you feel no guilt over anything you’ve ever done?’ I ask Mr Gough.
‘No guilt at all, in any way, shape or form,’ he says, with what sounds like absolute conviction.
‘I can understand that absence of guilt in the case of Boulting,’ I say. ‘I can even understand it in the case of Makepeace. But what about Lennie, Mr Gough? What about poor innocent Lennie?’
I am watching his eyes closely as I speak, and what I’m expecting to see is a flicker of guilt or concern cross them, before the iceman within him manages to reassert himself.
But that is not what I see at all!
What I do see is puzzlement, which is rapidly replaced by concern – and possibly even fear.
‘Lennie?’ he says tentatively, as if treading on treacherous ground which he suspects might give way at any time. ‘Lennie Moon?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Don’t give me that, Mr Gough! You must know – even if you had nothing to do with it yourself! It was in all the English papers.’
‘I haven’t looked at an English paper in years.’ His jaw quivers slightly. ‘Please tell me what happened to him.’
‘He’s dead!’
‘Was it … was it his heart? Or was it perhaps an accident?’
‘It was neither of those. He was murdered!’
I’m still watching the eyes, and what I read there is horror – but also a sudden understanding of what must have happened.
‘You didn’t have him killed, did you?’ I ask – and even if he confessed now, I wouldn’t believe him.
‘No, of course I didn’t have him killed,’ Gough says, in a cracked voice. ‘He was very special to me.’ He pauses, before continuing, ‘How was he killed? Was his neck broken?’
Ask most people to describe a way of murdering someone, and they’ll come up with stabbing, shooting, poisoning, strangling and the proverbial blunt instrument. Push them a little more, and they may suggest drowning, running the victim over, and possibly hanging.
That the victim had his neck broken would occur to very few people, but Mr Gough came up with the possibility immediately – and there can be only one explanation of that.
‘You know who killed him, don’t you?’ I demand. ‘And if you know that, you probably also know why he was killed.’
‘We’ve … we’ve always tried our best to protect him,’ Gough mumbles.
‘Who is “we”?’
‘We’ve done all we could for over thirty years, but we should have known it would always end this way,’ Gough says. ‘Given what Lennie was like, how could it have ended any other way?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I ask.
‘I’m glad that he’s dead – it would be so much worse if he wasn’t,’ Gough says.
When I first met him, just over an hour ago, I thought he had all the vigour of a fit man of sixty, but as he raises himself to his feet, I realise I am watching an old, old creature who is barely alive.
‘I have to go,’ he says.
He staggers over to the doorway, opens the door, and is gone.
I notice that I have been running the flats of my hands across the table with some force, and when I lift them, I can see that I have collected several prize splinters in my fingers and palms.
I’ve been a complete fool, I tell myself – a fool who first built up a noir fantasyland, and then bought into it completely.
Did Mr Gough kill Albert Boulting?
No, of course he didn’t.
Did he kill James Makepeace?
Absolutely not – though I don’t, for a minute, believe his story about the Americans doing it.
Did he arrange to have Lennie killed?
No, he would never have done that, but I have no doubt that he knows who the killer is.
He is not a criminal mastermind – the leader of a death cult which has operated in St Luke’s, undetected, for over half a century. He is a decent man who never initiated anything, but simply reacted in the way he thought would minimise the damage.
And when I was warning myself that I’d be lucky to walk away from here alive, I was merely creating a melodrama in which I – naturally enough – was cast as the tragic heroine, whereas the truth was, Mr Gough was doing his best to protect himself, but never intended me any harm at all.
I take a deep, wounded slug of my G and T.
Still, even though I’m a deluded fool, the trip hasn’t been a complete waste of time, I tell myself bitterly.
I’ve learned, for example, that I can’t trust my best friend in the whole world – and that has to be worth something.
SEVENTEEN
23 October 1943
It was late afternoon. Charlie Swift was in his rooms at St Luke’s, savouring his afternoon tea – a pot of Earl Grey, hot buttered scones and a raspberry tartlet – when his door was flung unceremoniously open, and James Makepeace stormed in.
Makepeace was in a real state, Charlie thought – in fact, he looked even worse than he had the previous evening, when he’d realised that Sergeant Comstock had cut him.
‘What’s happened?’ Charlie asked.
‘I was walking along the river towards Sandford-on-Thames—’ Makepeace began.
‘Why were you doing that?’ Charlie interrupted, incredulous. ‘You hate walking. You never walk anywhere unless you absolutely have to – and I can’t think of a single reason why you’d choose to walk as far as Sandford.’
‘I was on my way to have a pint at the King’s Head in Sandford, if you must know all the tedious details,’ Makepeace said – and even delivered in a desperate angry voice, it still sounded like a very weak explanation.
‘But why Sandford? Have you suddenly gone off all the pubs in Oxford?’ Charlie asked.
‘For God’s sake, shut up and listen to me,’ Makepeace said, in a voice that was bordering on a scream.
‘All right,’ Charlie agreed, speaking soothingly and at the same time making calming, conciliatory gestures with his hands. ‘I’m listening, and what you need to do is to calm down and tell me exactly what the problem is.’
‘I was walking down by the river, and I’d got nearly as far as Sandford when I saw a man lying in the grass just beyond the path,’ Makepeace said. ‘He was wearing some kind of uniform, and he wasn’t moving. He might just have been sleeping, of course, but he was in such an awkward position that I thought he must have passed out, either due to drink or because of some medical condition. It must have been around half past three by then, and I knew it would be important to wake him before darkness fell, and the real cold set in.’
Nobody went from near hysteria to producing logical, balanced sentences as quickly as Makepeace had just done, Charlie Swift thought. This whole performance was just that – an act which had been as carefully worked out as any he might see on the stage.
Still, now it had begun, he might as well see the rest of the show.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘It was only when I knelt down beside him that I realised it was … that I realised it was …’
‘Sergeant Comstock?’ Charlie Swift suggested.
‘How did you know it was him?’ Makepeace asked.
‘Just a lucky guess,’ Charlie said, though, given the events of the previous evening, it had been an informed lucky guess. ‘And which of them was he?’ he continued.
Makepeace looked confused. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’
‘Was he drunk, or was he ill?’
‘He w
as neither. He was dead!’
But of course he was, Charlie thought.
‘What caused his death?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, exactly,’ Makepeace said, ‘but there was a lot of blood on the back of his head.’
‘So it looked almost as though he had arranged to meet somebody, and that somebody had sneaked up behind him and hit him with some kind of weapon, wouldn’t you say?’ Charlie Swift speculated.
‘Maybe,’ Makepeace said weakly. ‘I honestly don’t know. I didn’t stop to think about it.’
‘Had he been dead long?’
‘How should I know? I’m not a doctor.’
‘Take a guess – just to please me.’
‘No, I don’t think he’d been dead long.’
‘So it was quite a coincidence wasn’t it?’
‘Coincidence?’
‘The fact that you happened to be walking along the riverbank, something you never do, just after he’d been killed.’
‘Yes … no … I don’t know. For God’s sake, Charlie, maybe it was fate or something.’
‘And was there anyone else around when you discovered the body?’ Swift asked.
‘No, there wasn’t anybody – not a soul.’
‘You’ll have to report it to the police, you know,’ Charlie said. ‘You should have done it already.’
‘Are you mad?’ Makepeace exploded. ‘Have you gone completely off your head? If I report it, they’re bound to suspect that I killed him – especially after what happened in that pub last night.’
‘After what happened in that pub last night, they’ll suspect you whether you report it or not,’ Charlie Swift pointed out. ‘By reporting it yourself, you’ll at least raise an element of doubt.’
‘Raise an element of doubt! I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The police might ask themselves why a guilty man would report the murder, rather than seizing his opportunity to run away while he still had it.’
‘But that’s exactly why I’m here,’ Makepeace said.
‘To ask me to go with you to the police station?’
‘To ask you for some money, to help me get away.’
‘Why me?’ Charlie wondered.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No.’
‘I came to you because you’re my friend and my lover.’
‘Your friend and lover,’ Charlie mused. ‘I’m a good friend and lover who, if things had gone according to plan – which is to say if Comstock hadn’t been murdered – would have woken up the day after tomorrow to discover that you’d been posted and – seemingly without any regret on your part – had completely disappeared from my life forever.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Makepeace said.
‘Then how was it?’ Charlie wondered.
There was no satisfactory answer to the question, and Makepeace didn’t waste his time trying to find one.
‘The other reason that I’ve come to you is because I know you’re a rich man,’ he said. ‘You should have no difficulty in raising a couple of thousand pounds before they find the body.’
‘Finding the body might not take them long at all. Didn’t you tell me it’s just off the path, where anybody could see it?’
‘What I said was that it was just off the path when I first noticed it. But it isn’t there now, because I’ve moved it into some thick bushes.’
‘So you’re asking me to raise a couple of grand to help you – a murderer – escape?’ Charlie Swift asked.
‘But I’m not a murderer,’ Makepeace protested. ‘I keep telling you I’m not, but you won’t listen.’
‘You’ve told me, but I don’t believe you,’ Charlie said. ‘Listen, even though it will look bad that you hit him from behind, you still might be able to plead self-defence. You could say that you thought it was the only way that you could protect yourself after he launched an unprovoked attack on you last night.’
‘I’m not going to jail, not even for a single night,’ Makepeace said, reverting to his normal arrogant self, now that all other ploys had clearly failed. ‘You’re going to give me two thousand pounds to help me make my escape with, and when I’m safely established somewhere that the law can’t reach me, I’ll send a message to you that I want another two thousand pounds.’
‘And on and on, forever and ever, amen?’ Charlie asked.
‘No, of course not,’ Makepeace protested, realising – belatedly – that it might have been wiser to have left the last part of his statement unsaid. ‘Once I’ve got the four thousand pounds, that will be the end of it, and I’ll never bother you again.’
‘Even though we’re such friends and lovers?’
‘It would hurt me not to see you again, of course, but I’d be doing it for your sake.’
‘I don’t believe any of it,’ Charlie said. ‘Apart from the fact that you want my money, I don’t believe a single word you’ve said.’
Makepeace grinned. ‘Well, to be honest, Charlie, I can’t say I blame you,’ he replied. ‘If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe me either.’
‘So can you give me one good reason why I should do as you ask?’ Charlie inquired.
‘I can give you a very good reason,’ Makepeace said. ‘If I’m caught and charged with murdering a Yank, the Americans will probably demand that I’m hanged for it, and if that’s what they want, that’s probably what they’ll get, because we certainly can’t afford to piss off our American cousins at the moment.’
‘I have faith in British justice,’ Charlie said. ‘I don’t think it will give way to expediency.’
‘Then you’re a fool,’ Makepeace told him. ‘They’ll sentence me to death, all right, and when they do, I’ll confess to being a homo and having an affair with you. Why wouldn’t I? I’d have nothing to lose, because there’d be no point in sentencing a man to two years imprisonment if they were going to hang him the following week. But it would be different for you, wouldn’t it? They’d try you, and sentence you, and bang you up for at least a couple of years – maybe more, taking into consideration the sort of company you’ve been keeping. And you really wouldn’t like that, would you, Charlie?’
‘No,’ Charlie Swift admitted, ‘I wouldn’t.’
Makepeace laughed triumphantly. ‘There you are, you see,’ he said. ‘Short of killing me, you have no choice but to give in to my demands.’
EIGHTEEN
16 October 1974
As I didn’t know where Charlie Swift was, I couldn’t have told him that I would be flying back in England this afternoon even if I’d wanted to, but I wouldn’t have, anyway. I want no more to do with Charlie. No, it’s even stronger than just ‘want’ – if I wish to maintain my sanity I can’t allow myself to have anything to do with him – because even now, as I watch all the suitcases going round and round on the luggage carousel and wait for my own to appear, just the thought of Charlie is almost enough to make me break down.
I pick up my bag and head for customs and excise. There are no heavily moustachioed, gun-toting policemen here, just a few officials who seem either tired or bored, and barely give me a glance.
There is a metal barrier in the arrivals’ hall, and a fair number of people are standing behind it. Some of them are obviously waiting for family members, and have looks of excited anticipation on their faces. Others, equally obviously, have been sent to pick up people they have never met before, and hold signs in front of them with the stranger’s name written on them. And then there is one man who bridges the two groups. He is both emotional and holding a sign.
And what he has written on the sign is ‘Carrot Top’.
A few days ago – maybe even as late as yesterday – the sign would have simultaneously amused and infuriated me. Now it seems like nothing more than a desperate, pathetic attempt on his part to recapture what we once had – and that simply isn’t going to happen.
He tries to kiss me on the cheek, and when I turn away, he pretends not to not
ice.
He reaches out for my suitcase, and when I don’t hand it over, he shrugs, as if that means nothing at all.
I break away from the crowd that has gathered to greet returning friends and relatives – oh, how I wish some of them had been waiting for me – and make my way towards the car rental desks.
Charlie tags along beside me.
‘Aren’t you surprised I managed to track you down?’ he asks. ‘I think I’d make a pretty good detective myself.’
I say nothing, but just keep walking.
‘So did you learn anything useful while you were in Majorca, or were you just having a cosy holiday at the college’s expense?’ he asks – his voice kept light, to demonstrate that he knows I’m no slacker and it’s just a joke.
I maintain my silence, but it’s getting harder all the time.
‘Oh, come on, Jennie, say something,’ he urges.
So I do.
‘You know you’ve made a complete bloody fool out of me, don’t you, you bastard?’ I say.
‘Aren’t you blowing this out of proportion?’ he asks, still trying to be reasonable, but obviously hurt. ‘It’s true I didn’t tell you that I knew James Makepeace, but …’
I come to a sudden halt, drop my suitcase on the floor, and swing round to face him.
‘You didn’t tell me you knew him!’ I scream. ‘You did more than bloody know him, didn’t you? You were screwing the bloody arse off him!’
Lots of people stop to see what the commotion is all about – perhaps even to revel in this unexpected street entertainment – but I’ve reached the point at which I don’t give a damn who hears me.
‘Jennie,’ Charlie says, softly and urgently, ‘please just listen to what I have to say.’
‘All right,’ I agree.
He draws me away from the small crowd that has gathered, and even though they’re all bursting to hear the next thrilling instalment, none of them has the nerve to follow us.
‘First of all,’ Charlie says, when he judges we’ve put a big enough distance between ourselves and the rubberneckers, ‘I didn’t know it was James Makepeace’s body in the old vent.’
I’m not letting him get away with that.
Dry Bones Page 18
