Requiem

by Clare Francis

  Back in the kitchen he picked up the fruit before remembering the last and most frequently used door. Biting off a piece of apple he went through the small hall at the rear of the kitchen into the scullery, which served as a back lobby. It was a large room and dark, its shadows pierced by the green eyes of three giant freezers. From the boiler room next door came the low hum of the heating plant.

  Next to the door was a narrow window. As he reached for the door handle he peered through it and saw that the starlight had faded and the outline of the beech had become less distinct: a deeper blackness against an uncertain sky.

  Then the darkness shifted.

  He thrust his eye closer to the glass.

  Something had moved, but what?

  Suddenly his eye was brought down to the splash of light falling from the bottom of the kitchen window. A foot had come into view. A booted foot, heavy, large. It was placing itself cautiously on the flagstone. After a moment, the other foot appeared, feeling its way forward. The figure above was in darkness apart from the side of the leg, the shadow of a hand.

  Not Duncan: Duncan would come straight in. Not one of the estate workers: they’d ring at the courtyard door. No: this person was too furtive, this person was hoping not to be heard.

  Pulse racing, Nick abandoned his apple, threw the banana on the floor, and reached for the door to throw the lock. The next instant he wavered and pulled back. No, let the bastard come in, let him get the appropriate welcome.

  Reaching down to the door again, but stealthily, he tested the key to make sure the lock wasn’t set, then, trembling and hot for battle, he went on a feverish hunt for a weapon – a stick, a metal bar, anything that would carry some weight.

  Panting fretfully, cursing under his breath, he worked his way rapidly round the room, feeling for implements, long, sharp, heavy – he would have taken anything – and found nothing but cans, sacks of potatoes, catering-sized coffee tins.

  A knock. Soft, like a tap.

  He froze. It came again, a little louder.

  He tiptoed along the front of the freezers until he was in the shadows to the far side of the door, the best position from which to spring an attack. An elbow locked around the throat should do it. If not that, an arm-lock up the back. His hand-to-hand technique wasn’t too hot, but he mentally rehearsed the grip and twist needed to immobilize his enemy.

  The knocking came again, a louder more confident rap that was designed to be heard. It figured: he’d want to be sure the house was empty, he’d want to know he wasn’t going to be disturbed.

  A scrunching of feet as the man shifted his weight, then a thunderous rap that had the door bouncing on its hinges. Through the window the outside light sprang on; the man’s rapid movements must have triggered the vibration sensor.

  Nick felt a moment of doubt. Could it be friend rather than foe? Should he take a look? But no – what friend crept up to one’s door so as to avoid activating the security lights?

  In the ensuing silence, the sound of the handle turning had his stomach barrelling up into his ribs. He retreated slightly, to get a better run at it.

  The handle ground on. The sound ceased. It was a moment before he realized that the door was already swinging open, coming rapidly towards him. Then it stopped. In the light from the kitchen, the man was clearly outlined as he stepped into the room. Large, heavy.

  The man paused, as if to listen, then pulled the door closed behind him.

  Perhaps Nick made a sound, perhaps the other man suddenly sensed his presence, but the next instant he was spinning round with an audible gasp.

  Nick, himself startled, went in a split second too late. He knew it was too late because as he went for the man’s arm to try for the arm-lock he saw the arm curling upwards to block his strike.

  Having missed his move, he went for anything he could get, scrabbling to get a grip on his opponent’s shoulder, flailing for the wrist of the blocking arm. At the same time he tried to hook a foot round the intruder’s ankle and knock him off balance. The man was shouting something, but whatever it was Nick didn’t hear and pressed on. The advantage of surprise was gone, and the other man was recovering fast. He kicked Nick’s foot away as easily as if it were some mild obstruction, and, neatly reversing the position, hooked his leg behind Nick’s.

  Nick might have been able to cope with that if it hadn’t been for the hand that came from somewhere under the cover of the blocking arm and splayed itself against the underside of his chin, snapping his head backwards with a nasty jerk. Abandoning all thoughts of attack, Nick tried to twist away, at the same time pulling the iron-clawed fingers away from his chin. But as his weight was driven back, he came up against the man’s leg and, feeling his balance going, pushed out a hand in the direction of the man’s head to grab what he could.

  The man was trying to speak again, but Nick was too busy finding hair and part of an ear to listen. Getting a firm grip, he twisted hard. He heard the other man yelp with pain, but any triumph he might have felt was short-lived when the pressure on his chin failed to lessen; if anything it intensified. He made a last effort to twist away, but somehow the intruder had got a vice-like grip on his shoulder. God, he was strong. It was like tussling with a machine.

  Finally Nick felt his weight begin to topple. Determined not to go down alone, he held on grimly to the patch of scalp. The other man came down all right; his weight – what felt like a good eighteen stone – landed right on top of Nick. But even as the man was on his way down, he must have been planning his next move because he quickly straddled Nick’s body and, letting go of his chin, pinned his shoulders effortlessly to the floor with one arm, while conjuring up a spare hand from somewhere to bolt itself round Nick’s throat. One didn’t have to be a martial arts enthusiast to realize he had done this sort of thing before.

  One feel of those steely fingers closing round his neck and Nick felt a punch of real fear.

  ‘I’m not here to harm you!’ came a deep voice. ‘Just let go ma head, for God’s sake.’

  For an instant the hand around Nick’s throat increased its pressure, to show what it could do if it really tried. Not needing a second hint, Nick loosened his grip on the man’s scalp and immediately felt the hand withdraw from his neck.

  For an instant neither of them moved, their panting loud in the gloom.

  ‘Aye, but you gave me a shock!’ came a deep voice.

  ‘Who the hell – ! Get the fuck off me!’

  ‘Sure. Sure.’ His tone was surprisingly contrite. He moved hastily, rolling clear and clambering to his feet. ‘I didna’ mean to go fightin’ you. It was just the shock. By God, but you were like a devil there.’ He gave a low gasp. ‘You nearly had me … And no mistake.’

  Nick, recovering fast, scrambled to his feet. ‘Who the hell – !’

  In the gloom he saw the man leaning against the wall, gathering his breath. ‘It’s Campbell,’ the voice said. ‘Alistair Campbell.’ He held up a defensive hand. ‘Now don’t go mad, Mr Mackenzie. You’d best listen to me, or you may regret it. I came specially to warn you, do you see?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Nick howled angrily, still feeling the fingers at his throat, ‘I could get you arrested for this. Trespass, for Christ’s sake … You’ve no right to go creeping about, scaring the shit out of people. What the hell’s wrong with ringing the door bell like everyone else?’

  ‘What, at the gate there? You mightna’ have let me in.’

  ‘Up here then, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘I didna’ want to meet with the police.’

  Nick, suddenly exhausted, propped himself against a freezer. ‘The police?’

  ‘That’s what I came to tell you, Mr Mackenzie. They’re on their way. At this very moment.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ He felt like a drink. No – not a drink. Coffee. Striding shakily past Campbell, he tottered into the kitchen and made for the percolator.

  ‘They’re comin’ right now, Mr Mackenzie,’ said Campbell, hur
rying along behind. ‘I have it on good authority’ – a tone of confidentiality came into his voice – ‘a friend at the local police. I thought you might need to know.’

  Nick wasn’t in the mood for this obtuse conversation. He was still smarting from the speed of Campbell’s victory. ‘Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re on about,’ he retorted, pouring his coffee.

  ‘It’s a squad from Glasgow.’ Campbell drew in his lips. ‘From the drug squad.’

  Nick guffawed. ‘The drug squad? Don’t make me laugh. I’ve never touched the stuff. No, laddie,’ he wagged an irate finger, ‘you’ve got things wrong! If anyone’s going to get into trouble tonight, it’s going to be you!’

  Campbell shuffled, his face creased into an expression of almost childish alarm. ‘Mr Mackenzie, you have to believe me. This is no joke.’

  There was an earnestness about the man that caused Nick’s anger to subside a little – his anger, but not his incredulity. ‘No joke, eh? Well then, they’re in for a big disappointment, aren’t they?’

  ‘They’ve a warrant, Mr Mackenzie.’

  Nick paused, the coffee half-way to his mouth. There was a certainty in Campbell’s tone that was beginning to unnerve him. For the first time he considered the possibility that there might be some truth in what he was saying.

  While he was trying to make sense of the idea, there was a loud buzz from the far side of the room.

  The two men exchanged glances.

  Nick slowly put down his cup. ‘The gate,’ he said.

  Campbell bounced forward on the balls of his feet, poised for action. ‘Shall I hold them off? Keep them busy?’

  Nick didn’t dare imagine what Campbell had in mind. ‘But I tell you, there’s nothing here!’ he said harshly, striding across to the videophone and looking at the screen. Two cars, two men standing in the foreground, both in plain clothes. He felt a sudden unreasoned panic, as if he had something to feel guilty about.

  On the screen one of the men reached forward, his hand growing disproportionately large in the distortions of the fish-eye lens. The buzzer sounded again.

  Nick lifted the handset. He saw the two men cock their heads as they heard the click.

  Suddenly the scene lurched in front of him, the heat drained from his face.

  ‘What is it?’ Campbell’s hoarse whisper sounded at his elbow.

  Nick fell back, staring dumbly at the wall as he tried to fight himself clear of the thought that was ricocheting round his brain. ‘God …’

  ‘Here.’ Campbell took the handset from Nick’s faltering grasp and barked a peremptory. ‘Hullo?’

  It took Nick a few seconds to gather his wits, about as long as it took Campbell to have a grudging conversation with the men at the gate and, capping the receiver, to turn questioningly to Nick. ‘They’ve a warrant all right. Shall I …?’

  Nick gave a dazed nod, already retreating. By the time Campbell had pressed the entry button, he was beginning to run, sprinting into the hall and up the stairs. In the bedroom, he pulled open the wardrobes, now largely empty, and progressed rapidly through the drawers, scrabbling through the contents and slamming them shut again.

  At Alusha’s bedside cabinet he pulled himself up short, thinking: Slow, slow. Don’t miss anything. Crazy to hurry now.

  Her clothes had gone months ago, donated to charity, but smaller belongings remained, things he hadn’t got round to clearing away. He dropped to his knees and went through the main compartment, a wide cupboard with two shelves. Books, Walkman, tapes, magazines. As he moved to the drawer above, he was aware that Campbell had entered the room and was hovering at the window.

  Jewellery, Panadol, face cream, hairbrush, hairbands, pencils, tissues, cotton wool …

  Campbell made a warning sound, but Nick had already heard the scrunch of car wheels on the drive.

  His hand closed over a small jar half hidden by the bag of cotton wool balls. Rapidly he unscrewed the top and put his nose to the white powder. Sticking a finger in, he took a lick, resealed the jar and jammed it in his pocket. There might be more somewhere. Where, Alusha?

  A car door slammed. He caught Campbell’s eye as he sped past him into Alusha’s bathroom and started on the double stack of drawers either side of the dressing table. Eye makeup, skin makeup, lotions, creams.

  The front door bell sounded deep in the hall.

  ‘I’ll keep them busy, shall I?’ called Campbell from the bedroom.

  ‘No!’ He shot a drawer home and wrenched out the next. Belts, scarves, trinkets, haircombs. The travelling drawer next: sun lotion, fly repellents, stomach remedies.

  The door bell sounded again.

  Straightening up, he lunged for the corner cupboard. Nothing. Where, Alusha? Feeling the sweat on his ribs, he brushed past Campbell and hurried into the dressing room that he had shared with Alusha.

  The door bell rang again, but this time someone was leaving his finger on it.

  Her cupboards were empty, the shoe racks bare. He began to lose hope.

  ‘Let me search!’ hissed Campbell, grabbing his arm. ‘Just tell me where – ’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ he replied fretfully. ‘Somewhere …’

  The police were hammering at the door now, their shouts floating up through the window.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Nick cried as much in anguish as exasperation.

  ‘They’ll break the door.’

  Nick slouched, his energy gone, and realized he had resigned himself to giving up the search. He made for the stairs, turning sharply at the top so that Campbell almost bowled into him.

  ‘Get rid of this,’ he said, thrusting the jar into Campbell’s hand. ‘And I mean, get rid of it.’

  Campbell gave a fierce nod and slipped soundlessly away, heading, it seemed, for the back stairs whose location he seemed to know as well as he knew the rest of the house.

  Nick’s story about having been in the soundproofed studio unable to hear the doorbell and the staff having inexplicably disappeared did not impress the police, and certainly not the detective inspector, a fiftyish man, short and overweight with heavy jowls and a broken nose, nor his second-in-command, a young detective sergeant who, with his black leathers and razor-cut hair, looked like something out of Mad Max. The rest of the men immediately fanned out and, though he couldn’t be sure, he had the feeling some of them made straight for the lavatories to see if they could find evidence of recently flushed drugs.

  He thought suddenly of Campbell. Would he – ? Dear God, let him have had more sense. Anywhere but the lavatories.

  There were seven or eight officers altogether, sullen men with hard staring eyes, all Glaswegians as far as he could make out, their accents as impenetrable as their expressions.

  They were thorough, or at least he assumed they were, because they were there a long time. After calling his solicitor, a privilege grudgingly permitted half an hour after he’d requested it, he sat in the library, looking into the fire, trying very hard not to think of the snooping hands going through Alusha’s things, occasionally glancing up to find the sergeant’s eyes boring into him. Despite himself, aware that he shouldn’t be rattled by such transparent bullying, he felt unnerved.

  What had triggered this little visit? It was no accident, that was for sure; they wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble without a tip-off. His first thought was that the dealer had talked. Going by the unlikely name of Ned Sunshine, he was supplier of drugs to the aristocracy and other branches of show business, and had been recommended by Joe. But why now? Why after so long? And why single out Nick?

  After a time the inspector came back into the library and began a plodding question-and-answer session. Was Nick in possession of illegal substances? Had he ever purchased illegal substances? Had drugs ever been used on the premises?

  Nick kept his voice level, showing what he hoped was the right degree of indignation without actually losing his temper, although as the inspector’s questions grew more asinine and repetitive
his control became patchy.

  A knock on the door brought a welcome if astonishing interruption. It was all Nick could do not to stare as Campbell appeared, preceded by a hazardously balanced tray of mugs, and came cautiously across the room, eyes fastened on the drinks as if his life depended on it. He managed the transition onto the persian rug all right and, after a moment’s alarm, successfully negotiated a protruding table, then, his breath rasping audibly, his mouth puckered with concentration, he lowered the tray to the inspector’s elbow. His old tweed jacket, visibly frayed, a large and mysterious stain on the hip, added a certain distinction to the idea of Campbell as a butler, and Nick watched in fascination as he straightened, set his sights firmly on the mugs again, and advanced across the hearth.

  As he lowered the tray, he looked directly at Nick and dropped a heavy wink. Nick, needing more reassurance, raised a questioning eyebrow. Campbell gave an imperceptible nod. ‘All gone,’ he whispered.

  The mug contained coffee, not bad coffee at that. As Campbell paused at the door, Nick called: ‘Thank you, Campbell.’

  Tucking the tray under his arm, he gave a slight bow. ‘Not at all, sir.’

  After that Nick allowed himself some optimism, which, as he should have known, was bound to be fatal. Five minutes later a young officer came jauntily into the room and, with an unmistakable flourish, handed the inspector a small screw-top jar.

  ‘A bag in the bottom of a wardrobe, sir.’

  The inspector unscrewed it and sniffed. He held out the open jar and said: ‘And how do you explain this, Mr Mackenzie?’

  Chapter 34