The station lights dim just as the last person leaves the waiting-room and I stretch myself across four of the plastic chairs, as near to the wall-heater as I can get. I’ve set the alarm on my mobile phone and am just falling asleep when the lights in the waiting-room are snapped on again and a fat person enters, all of a bustle with his own importance. He talks to me civilly, however.
“Now then, sir, missed your train, have you?”
“No,” I say, “it isn’t due for several hours yet.”
“Well, I’m about to close up the waiting-room. I’ll be opening it again at 6 a.m. tomorrow, before I go off duty. I’m afraid you’ll have to find somewhere else to wait meantime. We can’t let people stay in here overnight. It’s against the rules.”
“Are you saying you’re going to kick me out?”
“Sorry, I’ve no option. The waiting-rooms are closed at night. Security.”
I swing my legs round, and plant my feet on the ground. I don’t like him, and I’m taking my time. I stand up slowly.
“I suppose I’ll have to wait on the platform, then.”
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s not allowed, either. There are no more passenger trains now for almost four hours, and our instructions are always to clear the station overnight. We’ll be opening it up again about ten minutes before the first train is due in, tomorrow. You’ll be able to see when that is if you look at the board.”
I see red. I’d like to punch him, but I’m conscious of the need not to make myself conspicuous. I have to get to Liverpool without anyone taking too much notice of me.
“That’s quite outrageous,” I say half-heartedly. “You mean to say that you’re turning me adrift into a city I don’t know, with nowhere to sleep?”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. If you come back with me to the office, I can give you some lists of hotels and boarding houses where they’ll accept you this late. Quite reasonably priced, some of them. You’ll be more comfortable in one of them.”
I shrug, and walk away. When I reach the ticket barrier, I see that it has been left open. There is another railway official standing beside it, but he barely looks at me. I shoulder the small rucksack that I am carrying and walk out of the station and into the night.
Chapter Forty
Peter Prance was sitting with his head bowed, staring listlessly at his hands, when Tim Yates decided to re-start the interview. It was some ten minutes after his announcement of Ronald Atkins’ death. Chris McGill was still sitting next to Peter, looking tired to death. Tim guessed that he would be a more than willing ally in coaxing Peter to speak if he persisted with his prevarications.
When Tim entered the interview room, Peter Prance clutched at the plastic cup of water that he had been given, and started taking tiny anxious sips from it. All of his former chutzpah had vanished. He looked worried, bent and old. Just a few minutes before, he had seemed wiry and sinewy, but now he appeared to be gaunt to the point of emaciation. He shivered and his hand shook, causing him to spill a dollop of the water on to the table. Tim mopped at it with a paper towel.
“Are you all right, Mr. Prance? Are you feeling well?”
“Quite well, quite well,” he muttered. “It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.”
“What is a shock, sir? The news that Ronald Atkins is dead? Did you know Ronald Atkins?”
“No. I never met him. I’ve told you, Hedley didn’t see him.”
“Why has his death had such an effect on you, then? As you pointed out when we were discussing Dorothy Atkins’ death, you weren’t upset because you weren’t acquainted with her. Why doesn’t the same apply to your feelings for her former husband?”
“It’s not the man himself I care about,” said Peter, a ghost of his testiness returning, “it’s the fact that he is dead.”
“You have me there, sir, I’m afraid. Either you’re talking in riddles, or I’m more obtuse than I thought I was.” He leant across the table at Peter and thrust his face as close to the small man’s as he dared without being reprimanded by the solicitor.
“Let’s stop this nonsense now, Peter, shall we? I need to find Hedley Atkins, and I need to find him tonight. I have good reason to believe that he is behaving in an unbalanced way and that he may be dangerous, to himself as well as to others. I’ve no idea where he is or what he is up to, but I think that you do. I’m asking you once last time to give me what information you have. If you don’t . . .”
Chris McGill jerked himself into alertness and held up his hand.
“Detective Inspector Yates, I must protest . . .”
“It’s all right,” said Peter Prance. “I will tell you what I know. I never thought that Hedley really was capable of murder, you see. But two deaths in twenty-four hours is too much of a coincidence.”
Chapter Forty-One
It is 3.30 a.m. I have paced the streets of this grim city for many hours. I feel exhausted, yet still pierced by shards of anxiety which propel me ever onwards. If I don’t walk and walk and continue to walk yet more, I think that my brain will implode. Many years ago, I recognised in myself an infirmity, a kind of weakness of mind which did not have its origin in sloth or cowardice. It was as if a very thin skin, a fragile veneer of good qualities, were stretched over a black abyss of hate inside me. I think that is why I have allowed so much of my life to be governed by inertia. It is because I have also yielded to this hatred on occasions. The worst of it is that it is the only thing that truly makes me feel alive. Yet it is a strange kind of aliveness and once it has passed I can’t remember it. I can’t remember what I said or did while it was with me, or, sometimes, even who else might have been present while I was in its lethal grip. It creates a veritable hell of uncertainty within me. I no longer know what is real and what my mind is inventing. I don’t, in truth, know whether I have killed or not, though I have told Peter that I have; or whether I will kill again. If I do, Peter has ordained that it shall be today.
I walk past dark doorways. Some are inhabited by filthy dossers whose shadowy forms, cloaked in shapeless rags, loom out at me as I pass. They curse and mutter. They seem real, but there are so many of them, and they seem so alike – a huge incontrollable army eking a living on the fringes of civilisation, yet uniform, somehow – that after a while I begin to suspect that they are not really there. They have been created by me: they are extensions of my mind. I am in another waking nightmare.
Twice I have been accosted by young men. I did not understand what they wanted. I put up my hand to shield myself from them and instead of attacking me, they just melted away. When cautiously I lowered my arm, so that I could face up to them, they had gone. Would they have done that if they had been made of real flesh and blood?
I am so afraid of the dossers that I hasten to where the street lights are brighter. This must be the centre of the city: it is a place of shops and offices, and massive civic buildings. It, too, is a place of grinning revenge. I see fat girls prowling the streets, dressed tartily. Each when she raises her head shows me Kathryn’s face; or Bryony’s face. Terrible, bloated faces, half-destroyed with decay. There are drunks brawling and vomiting. When I get close, each one looks like Ronald, his face purple, his eyes bulging, the rope around his neck.
The streets are crawling with policemen. They walk in pairs and patrol in vans. I shy away from them when I see them coming – they may have photographs of me and I cannot bear the way their hideous yellow-green jackets gleam under the street lights. Yet I want to scream out to them, to ask them to rescue me. I want them to rescue me from the nightmare, to forcibly remove me from the crime I have yet to commit. I try to accost one who approaches me on his own, but when I get close to him, I see that he has a gibbering monkey’s face. I don’t know whether he is my pursuer or my friend; or just another weird beast that I have invented. I wish to God that I had not missed that train.
I’m heading back towards the station
now. I’m fearful and I look over my shoulder repeatedly. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see; I don’t think it is a tramp or a policeman. I feel that something worse is dogging me, something nameless, without being. Some horrible reproachful thing flits just beyond my reach. I can sense it there in the darkness. I’m certain I’ve seen it throw its shadow ahead of me, even though I’m convinced that it lurks behind. It is playing an evil game. I know what it is now: it is Bryony’s ghost.
I am within sight of the station. It looks cheerful: it casts a block of yellow light on to the damp and dingy streets that surround it. I feel the shadow hang back. I look back over my shoulder, and can see nothing. But now I hear her. “Peter is right,” she says. “He is right. He is right. Do what he says.”
I ignore her. I’m standing inside the station now. The doors have been opened and there is a sleepy black attendant at the barrier. I’m standing beside the shutters of the closed-down shops that are clustered beyond the concourse. I crane my neck, trying to see if there is anyone beyond the barriers. Another railway official is leaning against the information kiosk, which is not yet lit up. That is all. There are no policemen, no strange young women, no-one who might try to trap me. I look at the black attendant. His peaked hat is pulled down over his eyes, as if he is trying to continue the sleep from which he has recently had to drag himself. Unless he is a good actor, he is showing no interest in me. I know that I must keep my nerve. I resist the urge to hurry through the barrier as quickly as I can. Instead, I saunter to it as nonchalantly as I’m able, carefully pulling my wallet from my pocket as I go. I extract my ticket with care. I hold it against the slit in the barrier, which snatches it from my grasp. The barrier springs open. The ticket reappears suddenly, and I retrieve it and walk through as slowly as I can make myself. The man standing at the barrier shows no awareness of my presence. I walk on.
The information kiosk is completely deserted: the man who was leaning on it has disappeared. This makes me nervous. I wonder if he has gone to report me, to fetch help. I decide that this is unlikely. I look at the digital information board. It is easy to understand, because few trains are running yet. I locate the train to Liverpool and see that it is on time. It will arrive in ten minutes, on Platform 8b. I descend the long flight of steps to the platform. Once there, I am totally alone. The platform is only dimly lit, and smells unpleasant. It is an industrial smell, a pungent mixture of oil and dirt.
Suddenly I realise that I am shaking with cold. I am hungry, too. I cannot remember when I last ate. I need a warm drink. There is a vending machine tucked in the corner at the bottom of the staircase, but I don’t have the right change. I cannot risk retracing my footsteps to use the change machine that I know is located outside the lavatories. I put my hands in my pockets, and huddle my shoulder-blades together against the cold. I wait.
The train glides into the station a little before it is due. I board it. Of course I have no seat reservation, but this is clearly not important: the carriage that I have entered is deserted. I collapse, exhausted, on to the seat nearest to the door and close my eyes. I seem to be waiting, fearful, nerves pitched, for a very long time before the train judders into movement again. I open my eyes cautiously and see that I am moving beyond the station to the scrubby industrial hinterland that lies beyond. I fall into a fitful sleep.
I am woken by someone gently shaking my shoulder.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. Could I see your ticket, please?” It is a female train guard. She is plump, with curly fair hair. She is smiling at me and I try to smile back. I produce the ticket. I feel my lips trembling, displaying the same paralysed rictus of yesterday. She gives me an odd look as she returns it to me. Looking around me, I see that there are now several other people occupying the carriage. A woman is approaching with a drinks trolley.
“Any drinks? Refreshments?” she calls in a sing-song voice. One by one, I covertly examine my fellow-travellers. All of them appear to be sleeping, but I can’t be sure. I can’t see their faces clearly; perhaps their sleep is feigned. They may be pretending to show no interest in me. I know that appearances are often deceptive; only too well, in fact. I shrink back into my seat and turn my face to the window. There is nothing but blackness outside. The woman with the trolley draws level with my seat.
“Any drinks? Refreshments?” she says again.
I am gasping for a cup of tea, but I decide that to buy one would be too risky. I keep my face pressed close against the window. I don’t acknowledge her and she passes on.
I do not sleep again. I remain facing out into the pitch black night for all that remains of the journey. Almost two hours later, I see the first stirrings of a dawn breaking over an endless mosaic of lights. I realise that we must be approaching Liverpool. My neck is so stiff that I can hardly move it. Painfully, I twist it round so that I am facing forwards again. The tannoy crackles into life.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we shall shortly be arriving at Liverpool Lime Street. When leaving the train, please remember to take all your belongings with you. Mind the gap when alighting on to the platform.”
I am about to commit a murder. Afterwards I shall be caught by the police, or give myself up to them. It will be the first murder for which I can be charged under UK law, but no-one – probably not even Peter, now – will believe that this is the truth.
Chapter Forty-Two
Peter Prance’s collapse was sudden. In an instant he had dropped his veneer of insolent urbanity. After his promise to help, he fell forward on to the table, apparently distraught. He burst into a paroxysm of tears, his chest and shoulders heaving.
“Are you all right, Mr. Prance?” Chris McGill had stood up and was bending over him almost panic-stricken. Tim’s own reaction was more measured, not to say sceptical. He knew the man was a consummate actor. Peter Prance lay with his head buried in his arms, which he had folded on the table-top, for what seemed like several minutes. Tim motioned to Chris McGill to leave him, and, somewhat reluctantly, he took his seat again. Finally Peter Prance raised a tear-stained face. Tim could see that the tears were genuine, but he believed that the little round dark eyes that peered through them were as calculating as ever.
“Are you all right?” Chris McGill said again. Then, turning to Tim, “Perhaps we should leave it for this evening. We are all exhausted.”
“Certainly not,” said Tim, quickly. “If this were a routine enquiry, I would agree with you. But it is imperative that we find Hedley Atkins tonight. I am afraid that someone’s life may be in danger.”
For the first time he sensed that Chris McGill was not onside.
“Whose life?” he asked guardedly.
“I wish I knew,” said Tim. “All I can say is that I believe that currently his state of mind is dangerously unstable and that in a fit of panic or rage he may injure or even kill someone.”
“Really, Inspector, I . . .”
Peter Prance sat up.
“No,” he said. “Don’t.” He turned a tear-smudged face towards Tim. “I agree with you,” he said, “but I’m afraid that it may be too late already. He was only meant to frighten them. I may have suggested that he should kill her, but I never for a moment believed that he would be capable of such a deed.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The telephone calls had been made. Now all they could do was sit and wait and hope that Peter Prance was right. He had been allowed a short rest in one of the cells. Chris McGill had also taken the opportunity to get a couple of hours’ sleep in Tim’s office. Tim himself, bursting with a kind of fevered energy, had meantime been briefing members of his team by phone.
“You say that you want to help us now, Mr. Prance. Perhaps you might care to tell us what you know.”
It was 6.45 on Friday morning. Chris McGill, who a few hours previously had seemed almost comatose with fatigue, was bright and alert now. Peter Prance himself had also regained some of his fo
rmer ebullience. Tim was on an adrenalin high, determined to power on.
“I’m not going to tell you anything that you couldn’t have worked out for yourself,” said Peter Prance, chipper and combative once more.
“That may be. I’m assuming, however, that you may not only have outwitted us, but also got Hedley Atkins to endorse your version of events?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“I congratulate you. Please continue.”
Peter Prance looked at Chris McGill.
“You don’t have to co-operate, Mr. Prance, but given what you’ve just told us, I strongly suggest that you do. Detective Inspector Yates may be better disposed to discover some mitigating circumstances.”
Peter Prance shot Tim a malicious glance.
“Indeed.” He steepled his fingers.
“I am quite prepared to admit that I cultivated Hedley, for a number of reasons. One of these was undoubtedly that I thought that he would be likely to offer me a home if my mother refused to renew the lease on the flat where I was living. Another was that I had discovered who his mother was and I was intrigued. I’d very much like to have met her.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, one meets so few people of distinction – and notoriety is a form of distinction, or at least of distinctiveness, don’t you think? Almost everyone of a certain age can tell you that Dorothy Atkins was the woman who murdered her mother-in-law, even now.
In the Family Page 30
