by Jill McGown
She was real. Hands that worked, that washed dishes and Marks & Spencer underwear were arousing him, exciting an eager, almost instant response from the hunger that had fed too long on insubstantial fantasy.
She was real. Her legs had tiny bristles on them that rubbed against his skin when their imperfect bodies joined together. She didn’t cry out in ecstasy; it was over too soon for that.
Matthew would never forgive his father for what he did at the police station. Making him look a child, a fool, in front of the chief inspector. Making him come back. But that hadn’t been as bad as he had thought. He was no longer head boy but, far from being shunned, he had been inundated with questions; his status as murder suspect – never actual, but not denied – had eclipsed the fact of his having been the thief, and what might have been a sticky return to the school had turned into a positive triumph. Newby’s arrest had been attributed to him; he had liked that. Newby had been perfect; nervous, obviously having physically overstretched himself somehow. Being led on by Mrs Hamlyn every chance she got. And his car had been parked in the Barn; it had all made sense.
But he and Mrs Hamlyn hadn’t been interrupted by Newby; Newby had obviously convinced the police of that, or they wouldn’t have released him.
So he had been trying to piece together what he knew, and what he had gathered. He wished that he could be shown round the forensic laboratory while the investigation was going on; then he would know what they knew. As it was, he had to rely on what he’d seen, and heard. And overheard.
He frowned when it occurred to him. No, he thought. That would be impossible.
Or was it? The more he thought about it, the more he thought about the little things, like the doctor had said – the little insignificant incidents, snatches of conversation, moments – the less impossible it became.
Matthew smiled to himself. The police might know things that he didn’t, but the traffic wasn’t all one way. He knew who else could have stolen the golf-club.
He nervously licked his lips as he knocked on the door, which was answered by Treadwell himself.
‘What do you want, Cawston?’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve seen more than enough of you lately.’
‘I’d like to ask your advice,’ he said.
Treadwell seemed to think this funny; he let Matthew into the sitting-room.
‘At your service,’ he said, pouring himself a drink.
‘Mr Treadwell?’ Matthew said. ‘Should I say I’m sorry to Mrs Knight?’
‘No,’ Treadwell replied. ‘It’s possible that she didn’t realise that she was the subject of gossip. And if she did, it certainly wouldn’t help to know that it was a deliberate act.’
‘It’s just that she was so nervy,’ Matthew said. ‘On Saturday. And I realised that she’d been that way since the accident really.’ He dropped his eyes from Treadwell’s.
‘What’s the accident got to do with it?’ Treadwell asked.
‘I must have made things worse for her. I’d really like to tell her I’m sorry.’
‘That’s too bad,’ said Treadwell. ‘I’m not giving you that luxury. And if I hear that you have said one word to Mrs Knight about the thefts I will kick you back out again, Cawston. I’m still the head for the moment, and don’t think I wouldn’t do it. Now, go away, and stay out of my sight.’
Matthew left, just as Sam Waters crossed the road to the lane; he followed a little way behind as he went to the canteen, waiting outside in the wet, windy darkness while Waters ate three courses, still watching as he strode away from the canteen.
He stepped back into the shadow of the doorway as Waters passed him, deep in thought, then followed him back into the lane, and saw him go into the art room.
He walked quickly along the lane, and knocked on the door. On getting no reply, he walked in.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Waters roared.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Matthew. ‘It was just that I saw the light going on, and I thought perhaps someone was messing about in here.’
‘Well, they’re not, so you can just piss off.’
‘Sir,’ said Matthew, determined to say what he had really come to say.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake – what?’
‘Sir – you know that I stole those things?’
‘Yes, Cawston, I know that you stole those things. And I know that you stole my pen. And I knew that was why you were with Mrs Hamlyn, but I didn’t tell the police that because I thought you deserved to be scared out of your wits. I trust you were.’ Waters sat down at the table as he spoke, but he wasn’t relaxed. His foot tapped quickly, as though he was listening to fast music.
Matthew realised what he had said. ‘You were there,’ he said slowly. ‘You were there when Mrs Hamlyn spoke to me.’
Waters’s foot stopped tapping. ‘You mean you didn’t know?’ he said.
Matthew shook his head. But he knew now. And the police had seen Waters over and over again, but they hadn’t arrested him; it fitted. It all fitted.
Waters’s foot began to tap again, slowly this time. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
‘I’d like to ask a favour, sir,’ said Matthew.
‘From me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘You see, everyone thought it was Mrs Knight who was stealing.’
‘You made bloody sure everyone thought it was Mrs Knight.’ He jumped up again, and paced the room.
Matthew nodded. ‘I want to apologise to her,’ he said. ‘But Mr Treadwell won’t let me talk to her about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘He thinks she’d rather not know that I was doing it on purpose,’ Matthew said, then took a deep breath. ‘But I’m sure she already knows,’ he said. ‘I mean – she’ll have worked it out, won’t she? It could hardly have been coincidence. Not all those times.’
Waters snapped his fingers, still hearing his music. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ he asked, sitting down again, hooking one leg over the other, his foot moving, moving.
‘Will you tell her I’m sorry?’ he asked.
Waters grunted.
‘And – sir? Could you tell her that I didn’t take the golf-club? I want her to know that.’
Waters frowned. ‘What golf-club?’ he asked.
‘The one that went from the Barn just before Christmas,’ said Matthew, watching him carefully.
Waters frowned. ‘What about it?’ he asked.
Matthew’s eyes widened. ‘Didn’t you know?’ he said. ‘The police think that it’s the murder weapon.’
Waters again stopped his constant movement just for a second. ‘Do they now?’ he said.
‘Will you tell her, sir?’
‘Why pick on me, for God’s sake?’
‘Well,’ said Matthew. ‘She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she, sir? I mean – I’ve seen you go out with her.’
‘You know she’s a friend of mine,’ repeated Waters, in a low voice. ‘You’ve seen me go out with her. You know too bloody much, Cawston. You know everything that goes on round here, because you never stop watching people, do you?’
Matthew had always watched people. People were usually very interesting.
‘Will you speak to her for me, sir?’
‘Yes! Stop calling me sodding sir and piss off!’
Matthew turned to go.
‘And Cawston,’ Waters called.
He turned. ‘Yes, s—’ He bit off the rest of the word.
‘Don’t play with fire,’ he said.
Perhaps it was still all a nightmare. Treadwell poured himself a considerable pre-dinner whisky, and checked the drinks cabinet. He’d have to go to the off-licence for more soon. At least he could drink it in the open. He could get as drunk as he liked, because he was all washed up anyway.
Unless it was a dream, of course. In which case he could still get as drunk as he liked. And when he woke up Diana would still be alive, and he wouldn’t even have a hangover. He watched Marcia lay the table for one. She wasn’t speaking to him bec
ause he was drinking. It was no great loss; she was not one of the world’s great conversationalists.
He wished Matthew Cawston hadn’t mentioned the accident. How much did he know about what went on that day? Sometimes, he thought that Matthew knew everything about everyone. It was an uncomfortable thought.
Why, when God knew how many people were swooping on the school to take their sons away, did the Cawstons, of all people, have to bring theirs back? He had come in that morning with his father, who had said that after some discussion it had been agreed that Matthew should after all finish his education at the school. Matthew had looked a touch chastened; it was to be presumed that Mr Cawston had had enough of his smart-alec son. He had even been made to apologise.
‘I’m very sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you,’ he had said. ‘And thank you for being prepared to overlook what I did.’
It had been a bit like watching a hostage read a prepared statement. But the slightly mutinous look had gone with this latest visit, to be replaced by a Uriah Heep humility; it didn’t suit him. And it hadn’t given Treadwell the satisfaction he had hoped it might when he had dismissed Cawston from his presence. Why did he have to go and mention the accident?
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts on Matthew. Marcia announced the arrival of Chief Inspector Lloyd and Sergeant Hill, and retired to the kitchen, presumably to eat her solitary meal. Treadwell didn’t mind his being interrupted; he didn’t really feel like eating.
They came in, bringing with them the cold, blustery night which he had managed to shut out with the help of his liquid refreshment.
‘Mr Treadwell,’ said Lloyd. ‘We wondered if you could tell us a little about the golf-club.’
Treadwell frowned. What did they want to know about that for? ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s not bad. Not bad at all – not sure if you need to be a member. But’ – he looked at his watch – ‘you’d have to hurry. They stop serving quite early.’
From the looks on their faces, he didn’t think that that could have been the information they were seeking.
‘No, Mr Treadwell,’ said the sergeant. ‘The golf-club – the one that went missing.’
‘Oh!’ Treadwell frowned again. ‘Someone said Newby used his stick,’ he said. ‘Are you still interested in the golf-club?’
‘Mr Newby has been eliminated from our enquiries,’ said Lloyd.
Suddenly, Treadwell felt very sober indeed. ‘Not Newby?’ he said.
‘No.’
Treadwell sat down heavily.
‘Does that bother you?’ asked Lloyd.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I’m glad. I like Newby.’
‘May we sit down?’
‘Oh, yes, yes.’ Treadwell waved an expansive arm at the chairs. Not Newby. He’d have to tell Lloyd. But not with that damn woman here.
‘About the golf-club,’ said Lloyd. ‘You know exactly when it went missing?’
‘Yes. Saw it before lunch – rang the chap who might be interested, and arranged to have lunch with him. At the golf club, as it happens,’ he said, with a weak attempt at a smile. ‘Went back to pick it up, and it was gone.’
‘When was this?’
‘December the . . . whatever it was. It’s on the list.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes. When I asked Mrs Knight to organise a do for the sesquicentennial, I said I’d like to include the older boys in some way. I thought that perhaps we could clear the Barn, and have a disco or something, but it wasn’t possible, so we just let them come to the proper do. Anyway, it was when I was seeing if clearing it out was feasible that I found the niblick.’
‘When my sergeant came about the thefts, you didn’t mention the golf-club.’
‘No, I’d made a note of them all, but I hadn’t made a proper list. And it slipped my mind – I mean, it didn’t even belong to anyone.’
‘You said you’d let her have a list, but the first time she saw it was on Saturday.’
‘I forgot all about it,’ said Treadwell. ‘There weren’t any more thefts reported.’
Then the man seemed to change tack completely. ‘When we spoke to Mr Hamlyn,’ he said slowly, ‘he said that he had suggested that his wife might be with Sam Waters as some sort of revenge.’ He looked politely at Treadwell. ‘What do you suppose he meant by that, Mr Treadwell?’
Treadwell shrugged slightly. ‘Revenge for Sam having had an affair with his wife, I suppose,’ he said.
‘But that was an amicable arrangement, according to Hamlyn himself. He and his wife had arrived at an understanding.’
Treadwell frowned. ‘I don’t quite know what . . .’ he said.
‘We think he may have been trying to upset someone else. Someone at the table. Someone who had an interest in his wife. Someone who wouldn’t be too happy to think that Sam was with her.’
Treadwell thought. The chairman? No, he decided. Too interested in himself, if he was any judge.
‘He felt as though he had been given some sort of gift,’ Lloyd went on. ‘To ease someone’s conscience. Could that have been his promotion, Mr Treadwell?’
‘But I’m the one who put him up for promotion,’ Treadwell said. ‘The chairman just went along with it – very reluctantly, I might add. He thought Hamlyn was too old.’
‘The chairman didn’t leave the table,’ said Lloyd. ‘And Hamlyn believed that his remarks actually caused his wife’s death. I don’t think he suspected the chairman.’
‘Then who?’ said Treadwell.
‘You went looking for Mrs Hamlyn, Mr Treadwell.’
Treadwell was totally bewildered. ‘Because Mrs Knight wanted to speak to her,’ he said.
‘Why didn’t you ring Mrs Knight back?’ asked the sergeant.
Oh, God. He’d have to tell them. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but he couldn’t. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘would it be possible – I mean, could I speak to you alone, do you think?’
‘Sergeant?’ Lloyd said.
‘Certainly,’ she said, getting up. ‘I have something else to do.’ Lloyd twisted round as she got to the door. ‘Judy!’ he called, and got up, speaking to her too quietly for Treadwell to hear what he was saying. He came back into the room as the outside door closed. ‘Right, Mr Treadwell,’ he said, sitting down again.
‘I couldn’t . . . well, not with a young woman . . .’ Treadwell wasn’t at all sure that he could anyway.
‘You were about to tell me why you didn’t ring back to say that you had been unable to find Mrs Hamlyn,’ Lloyd said. ‘Why, Mr Treadwell?’
‘Because I did find her.’
Lloyd just nodded, as though he’d known that all along. ‘Well – I saw her.’
‘Where?’
‘In the Barn.’
Lloyd looked stern as he spoke. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’ he demanded. ‘Why didn’t you tell the chief superintendent that night? Why didn’t you tell anyone at all, Mr Treadwell?’
‘Because . . . I had got it all wrong, you see. I hadn’t got the picture – it took a while to get it all sorted out.’
‘Three days?’
‘No, well—’
‘Then let’s sort it out now, shall we?’
‘I went into the Barn, and—’
‘Wait. Did you expect to find her there?’
The wind howled round the house; Treadwell poured himself another drink.
‘No. When I was on the phone, the small door to the Barn was open, and I could see Newby’s car. I thought he’d left some time before that, and I went to see if he was all right. With it being so wet and slippery underfoot.’
Lloyd nodded encouragingly.
‘But then . . .’ Treadwell ran a finger round his shirt-collar, which was damp with perspiration. ‘As I got to the door, I heard . . . sounds,’ he said, producing the final word as quickly as he could.
‘Sounds?’ Lloyd frowned. ‘What sort of sounds?’
‘Oh, you know the sort of sounds!’
‘No,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Suppose you tell me?’
For a moment or two Treadwell’s lips moved, but nothing much came out. His hands moved, too, as though their waving about would suffice. ‘Sounds,’ he said again. ‘You know. Sort of . . . well . . . moaning, heavy breathing – you know!’ He hated Lloyd for making him tell him, but at least he wasn’t that woman.
‘Did she call whoever she was with by name?’
Treadwell gulped his drink, and shook his head. ‘Not unless his name was God,’ he said, in a heroic attempt at a joke.
Lloyd didn’t laugh. ‘If they were in the car, how were you able to hear so clearly?’ he asked.
Outside, the wind and the rain danced wildly together. Diana had danced wildly, Treadwell thought, beginning to feel pleasantly hazy. But you would never have thought it to look at her. She had been pretty, and vivacious, but she had always dressed sensibly, and she had been sensible. Bordering on wise, even. But she had danced wildly. He smiled a little.
‘Mr Treadwell? How could you hear what was going on in the car?’
He sighed. ‘The rear door was open,’ he said. ‘I could see that when I went in.’
‘Why did you go in?’ Lloyd’s face was unfathomable. He just asked questions, and listened to the answers.
‘Because I had to put a stop to it. Suppose one of the VIPs . . .’ Even now, in the new-found freedom of his resignation, Treadwell couldn’t bear to think of it. ‘I called out. Asked what was going on,’ he continued. ‘There was silence, then a sort of scuffle, and then someone got out of the car and opened one of the big doors. That’s when I could see that it was Diana Hamlyn, as if I hadn’t already guessed. I followed her, and she was going in the direction of the playing-field when I got out. Then I heard the doors being pushed open properly, and Newby’s car came out.’ He shrugged a little. ‘He was driving very fast. Too fast. I don’t think he saw me.’
‘What did you do then?’
