An Air That Kills

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said.

  Chapter Seven

  Charlie Meague waited until midnight.

  He had never needed much sleep, even as a child. During the war, he had developed the ability to catnap just as Winston Churchill was said to do. He waited in bed because it was the warmest place to be.

  Though he didn’t sleep, he let his mind lose its focus. Thoughts and images paraded themselves before him. A memory kept recurring: the box he had found this afternoon – not its contents, but the box itself. What haunted him was its familiarity. It was as if he had dug it up before, which was impossible. Somewhere another memory twitched and stirred in its hiding place. There must, he thought vaguely, be a good reason why that memory was so well hidden.

  His mother’s snoring changed its rhythm, distracting him. She was lying only a few inches away on the other side of the thin partition wall. He heard every cough and wheeze and sniff. She had had bronchitis in winter for as long as he could remember. It must be like trying to breathe through treacle.

  The old woman had had a bad day. One of her ladies had given her the push, and her cough was bad again; he had come back home to find her blue-faced and gasping for air. He’d tried, with some success, to take her mind off her sorrows by buying her three port and lemons at the King’s Head. He would have preferred to drink at the Bathurst Arms himself, but it was much farther away; besides, all things considered, it was probably safer to keep away from the Bathurst.

  In the pub, Charlie had enjoyed watching Ma Halleran queening it behind the bar and listening to her reliving her nocturnal adventure. Her account of her burglary became more dramatic with every retelling. The woman was a barefaced liar. She needed locking up.

  ‘The bitch,’ his mother had murmured between coughs and genteel sips, and for once she didn’t mean Ma Halleran. ‘The bitch. All the years I worked there, and she didn’t even give me the chance to explain.’

  Charlie had been tempted to point out that even if the bitch in question had given his mother the chance to explain, there was nothing she could have usefully produced in her defence. She had been trying to steal that silver box, that was all there was to be said about it. His mother was lucky that Mrs Wemyss-Bitch hadn’t gone to the police. He just hoped that the old battle-axe wouldn’t tell the other people his mother worked for.

  In any case, it had been such a stupid thing to do. As so often when he thought about his mother, Charlie Meague was torn between exasperation and affection. At the age of six, he had realised that he was cleverer than her. He had never seen any reason to revise this conclusion. If the silly cow had thought about it, she would have known that sooner or later the theft would have been discovered. And of course they would suspect her of having done it. It was always easier to suspect the cleaning woman than a friend. Besides, in this case, Mrs Wemyss-Brown would have told herself that the crooked streak obviously ran in the family. In Lydmouth, people had long memories. Like son, like mother, they’d say to themselves: bad blood will out. What irritated Charlie most of all was the reason why his mother had done it. Though he had said nothing to her, she knew that he needed money: she had stolen the box for him.

  The house cooled around him. At least it was no longer raining. He had left the curtains undrawn and through the window there were stars. There might even be a frost tonight.

  If his mother had been capable of putting two and two together, she would have guessed what he planned to do by the questions he had asked her. Perhaps she had guessed, but preferred not to admit it even to herself. It was better that she shouldn’t know.

  The church clock struck the three-quarters. He was tempted not to wait any longer. But he had decided to go at midnight, so midnight was the time he would go. Carn had taught him the value of planning, if nothing else. If you made a plan you followed it through. You didn’t improvise unless you had to, because that’s when things tended to go wrong. By midnight, most people would be likely to be asleep.

  Charlie reached out a hand for the tobacco tin beside the bed. He rolled himself a cigarette in the dark. A moment later, he struck a match. The tiny bedroom briefly filled with light. He lit the cigarette and leant on one elbow to smoke it.

  On the other side of the partition wall, his mother coughed; her bed creaked and the phlegm bubbled in her throat.

  It was only a matter of time before Carn traced him to Lydmouth. Charlie didn’t want to think about that. Instead, he thought of that bastard Evans and how he had acted over the box and its contents. Look at the way he’d been when they found that brooch. Charlie sucked furiously. He would have to be careful with Evans. He needed the job. After all, it gave him a reason to be in Lydmouth, and it gave him some money too.

  Charlie shut his eyes and remembered how Evans had flattened the rat with the back of his shovel. There had been a surprising amount of blood. It had made the flagstones greasy, but the evening rain might have washed it away.

  The cigarette burned lower. Charlie tried to empty his mind of everything. In the past, he had found that this was the best way: to give himself a little peace before he went into action. But the memory of the wooden box forced its way back into the emptiness. In the end it was easier to let it stay. He had seen that box somewhere else. Or one very like it.

  The clock on St John’s tower began to strike midnight.

  Part Two

  Thursday

  Chapter One

  ‘You did what?’ Superintendent Williamson enquired, dangerously calm. ‘Why didn’t you clear it with me first?’

  ‘I tried to, sir,’ Thornhill said, trying not to sound aggrieved, ‘but you’d left.’

  ‘You should have phoned me at home.’

  ‘I tried that too. There was no answer.’

  ‘Then you should have waited.’

  Thornhill was still standing because he hadn’t been asked to sit down. He stared at the blotter on the superintendent’s desk. There was a lifelike doodle of a cat in one corner.

  Williamson grunted and reached for his pipe. His weathered, blunt-featured face ought to have belonged to a farmer. ‘I’d have thought even in the depths of the Fens someone might have mentioned that the press needs careful handling.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I thought that this wasn’t exactly a controversial issue. Dr Bayswater seemed to feel that—’

  ‘There’s people in this town who believe that Bayswater’s as mad as a hatter. But that’s not the point. The point is, any CID officer who talks with the press has to clear it with me first. No ifs, no buts, no exceptions. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Williamson slowly filled his pipe. He went on in a quieter voice ‘We’ll have to pull out all the stops on this one, you realise.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Because the Wemyss-Browns are going to splash the story in the Gazette. It may go further afield. God knows where it will end. Even the nationals might get interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see why that should matter.’

  ‘Two reasons.’ The superintendent leaned across the desk and raised a finger. ‘One, because it means we’ll have to waste resources following it up. For God’s sake, we’re tight enough stretched as it is. Now, thanks to you, we’ll have to go off on this wild-goose chase. It’s a job for an archaeologist, if you ask me, not a police officer.’ He raised another finger. ‘Two, because publicity’s a good friend and a bad enemy. If you’re not careful, you could make us a laughing stock. Even worse, they’d accuse us of wasting ratepayers’ money.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Get those bones off to the lab, have them identified. Go and see old Harcutt. At least he’s not a blabbermouth unlike some I could mention. If you’d have come to me, I’d’ve put you on to him right away. And then you can waste an hour or two writing up a nice neat little report. I want a copy on my desk by the end of the day – sooner, if you’ve got any sense. And if the press want to talk to you, refer them to m
e. All right?’

  Thornhill didn’t reply because he guessed his resentment would show if he did. He had known that Williamson had a reputation for being brusque before he had applied for the job at Lydmouth. But this wasn’t brusqueness: it was the verbal equivalent of beating an underling over the head with a piece of lead piping. He counted silently to five in an effort to get his breathing under control.

  Williamson pointed his finger at him. ‘And why haven’t you got yourself a poppy yet?’

  Before Thornhill could answer, the phone on the desk began to ring. The superintendent scooped up the receiver.

  ‘Williamson.’ He listened for a moment. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said at last. He slammed the receiver back on to the rest and looked up at Thornhill. ‘I’m afraid your historical studies will have to wait. There’s been another break-in. Masterman’s. You know it? That little jeweller’s in Lyd Street. And this time there’s been some violence.’

  Chapter Two

  Lyd Street was a winding thoroughfare which led down to the river – to the place where for centuries there had been a harbour where the barges used to load and unload before the coming of the railways. Masterman’s shop was halfway down the hill on the left-hand side with a patrol car standing at the kerb.

  Thornhill parked the Austin behind it. Two women with shopping baskets were peering through the window, engaged in an animated conversation which stopped abruptly when he got out of his car. With averted heads, the women walked up the hill.

  He gave himself a moment to examine the front of the shop. First impressions were always important because you saw things with a clarity uncompromised by subsequent knowledge. Masterman’s was a small, single-fronted establishment. The woodwork had been painted a dingy green before the war – certainly before the last war and possibly before the previous one as well. The detachable bars were still padlocked across the window. The display had not been restocked since the night. All that could be seen were two alarm clocks and a few pieces of china, some of them labelled ‘A Present from Lydmouth’, set against a sunbleached green velvet backcloth. There were darker marks on the velvet where the sun had had less opportunity to do its work; here must usually stand the more valuable items which went in and out of the window every day. With a little imagination, you might infer that trade was sluggish, almost static, and that the shopkeeper was set in his ways.

  There were two doors: on the right of the window, the shop door which was still shuttered and on the left the door to the private accommodation. Thornhill rang the bell on the left. A moment later there were heavy footsteps on a flight of stairs inside. The door opened to reveal a uniformed constable with a spotty face. He was so large that he filled the doorway like a barrier. His boots gleamed like a guardsman’s.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he began, ‘Mr Masterman is not . . .’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Thornhill.’ He felt the anger inside him straining to get out. ‘Is Sergeant Kirby here yet?’

  The man swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realise that—’

  ‘All right,’ Thornhill said. He felt guilty because for a few damning seconds he had wanted to treat this boy as Williamson had treated him. ‘This is my first week in Lydmouth. What’s your name?’

  The constable stood back to allow Thornhill into the narrow hall. ‘Porter, sir,’ he said miserably.

  ‘Sergeant Kirby?’

  ‘He’s upstairs with Mr Masterman. The doctor’s here too.’

  A strip of streaky brown linoleum ran down the hall. On the right there was the door to the shop, and at the end of the hall was another door which presumably led outside at the back. The place smelled of drains and old, tired vegetables. Two monochrome engravings in dark wood frames hung on the walls. Thornhill glanced at them as he passed. They appeared to depict the respective martyrdoms of St Sebastian and St Peter. He went up the stairs with the constable plodding behind him. The handrail was dusty.

  Before he reached the head of the stairs, one of the doors at the top opened. Bayswater appeared.

  ‘Ten to one there’s nothing that a good night’s rest won’t sort out,’ he said to the room behind him, ‘but I suppose you’d better get up to the hospital and have an X-ray. I’ll call an ambulance. Soon we won’t need doctors at all, you know. Just technicians.’ He saw Thornhill coming up the stairs and his lips twisted. ‘Ah, the new boy. How are you getting on with your bones, Inspector?’

  ‘Good morning, Doctor. Is it all right if I talk to Mr Masterman now?’

  ‘Talk away, my dear man. But don’t let him talk too much.’

  Bayswater waved his hand in a vaguely benedictory gesture and clattered down the stairs; his mood had mysteriously improved since the evening before. Thornhill and Porter stood aside to let him pass. A few seconds later, the front door slammed. One of the other doors on the landing was slightly open. Thornhill caught a movement in the room beyond. Someone had been watching them through the crack.

  He went into the room the doctor had just left. It was furnished as a sitting room, with two windows overlooking the street. Porter clumped after him and, at a nod from Thornhill, shut the door.

  Detective Sergeant Kirby was standing close to the old man’s chair, which had been pulled up to the coal fire blazing in the grate of the tiled fireplace. Kirby was a sturdy man in his late twenties; he had well-greased yellow hair and regular features. He took a step towards Thornhill. His eyes were wary.

  ‘This is Inspector Thornhill,’ he said to the person hunched in the chair. He looked at Thornhill. ‘And this is Mr Masterman, sir.’

  The old man wore a shabby dressing gown over a jersey and trousers. His thin nose was large in relation to the rest of his face, which gave him the appearance of a young bird, and his hands were clasped round a mug of warm milk.

  ‘How are you feeling, sir?’ Thornhill asked.

  Masterman said nothing but his body quivered. The milk slopped, almost reaching the brim of the cup. Kirby took the cup from his hand and put it on the table beside him. The old man glanced at Thornhill and then quickly looked away. It was possible, Thornhill knew, even probable, that he would never recover fully from the events of last night: that they would leave a lasting legacy of apprehension and timidity which would exist quite independently from any physical effects.

  ‘I imagine you’ve already told Sergeant Kirby what’s happened, sir?’

  Kirby nodded. Masterman didn’t move.

  ‘Then I’ll ask him to tell me and you can let me know if he gets something wrong or leaves something out. All right?’

  Kirby already had his notebook in his hand. He flicked back a couple of pages. Thornhill glanced round the room. It was much as he had expected. The books had been swept off the bookshelves; the drawers had been taken out of the bureau and turned upside down to deposit their contents on to the floor. He glimpsed old letters, cheque stubs, pencils, rusty nibs and paperclips. On either side of the fireplace were recessed cupboards, the open doors revealing bare shelves within. At the foot of one of them lay a heap of china – cups, saucers, plates and jugs.

  Kirby cleared his throat. ‘Mr Masterman hasn’t slept well since his wife died last year. Last night he was lying upstairs in his bed with the light off and he thought he heard a noise downstairs at the back. That was at about half past twelve. He wasn’t sure – his hearing, he says, isn’t what it was and he might have imagined it. But he took the poker and he came down to have a look. The only telephone’s downstairs in the shop, by the way. He didn’t switch on the light. He came down the stairs as quietly as possible to this floor. He listened. He couldn’t hear anything. He went down the next flight of stairs, down to the hall.’

  ‘Still without turning on the light?’

  ‘I don’t need the light,’ Masterman said in a dry, thin voice. ‘I’ve lived in this house fifty years come next summer. I know my way round blindfold. Saves electricity, look. I’m not made of money, you know. Fifty years and I never had nothing like this ha
ppen before.’

  Kirby coughed gently. ‘The intruder was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He hit Mr Masterman over the head. When Mr Masterman woke up, he found himself in his own cellar.’

  ‘It was cold,’ the old man interrupted. ‘It went right to my bones.’

  ‘Mr Masterman had been tied up with his own clothesline. His attacker had also wrapped him in an eiderdown which he’d taken from Mr Masterman’s bed.’

  ‘Just as well he did. Otherwise the cold would have killed me. And that would have been murder, wouldn’t it? He would have hung.’

  ‘Was Mr Masterman gagged?’

  Kirby shook his head. ‘No need. The shop next door is empty and the people who live on the other side are away. Besides, it’s a good solid cellar. You could have a dance band down there without anyone noticing.’

  ‘I might have starved to death,’ the old man said. ‘Worse than a bloody savage, he was. I’m surprised the shock didn’t kill me.’

  ‘When Mr Masterman regained consciousness, he worked out where he was. He got up the steps to the cellar door, then waited for eight o’clock. There’s a woman who comes in to cook his breakfast every day. Mrs Crisp – she’s still here. As soon as he heard her in the hall, he started banging on the door.’

  ‘In my day a burglar would have thought twice about attacking an old man.’ The voice sank lower and slipped into a whining monotone. ‘I’ll be seventy next year. I blame the war. No one has any standards. It’s the war that did it. And then the bloody Socialists. Something for nothing – that’s all they want.’

  ‘Do we know what’s taken yet?’ Thornhill glanced round the room. ‘The man seems to have had enough time to do a thorough job.’

  ‘The great booby.’ Masterman cackled disconcertingly. The false teeth moved independently of his jaws, giving the impression that his mouth was inhabited by a small alien organism. ‘I fooled him. I fooled him proper, I did.’