Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

  Not that Sarah gave herself airs and graces. She might be indifferent to everyone else but there was never any hint that she thought herself their superior. But perhaps that was how the truly superior behaved. And there was something about her, a deep involvement in her own thoughts and a general unwillingness to comment on anything that went on outside her own front door, that made one feel quite gross producing even the mildest snippet of gossip.

  Of course Avis’s real reason for calling was to try and discover Sarah’s thoughts on Simone’s abduction. This, together with Alan’s death, was far too exciting merely to chat about in a general way. Avis wanted to discuss it with the one person whose responses she could not have predicted in her sleep.

  She picked up her box again, hesitated then told herself she was being foolish. After all, the woman couldn’t bite her. And if, after one or two subtle opening gambits, it was plain Sarah was either bored or irritated, well, thought Avis, I can always change the subject. Or leave.

  She knocked on the door. As she did so a cry came from inside the house. Later she was to realise that the two sounds were so close it was impossible that one could have been evoked in response to the other. At the time she thought Sarah had simply called “Come in.” And so, awkwardly clutching her present, in she went.

  Sarah stood by the dusty window. A dead fly hung in the remains of a web in the corner. She was tugging fiercely on a silk scarf, brilliantly striped in olive and aquamarine, knotted round her waist; looping and twisting it through her narrow fingers, almost tearing the thin silk. Gray Patterson was standing in the centre of the room. You could have cut the atmosphere, so Avis told her husband later, with a knife.

  Convinced she had interrupted a lover’s quarrel, Avis stumbled into speech. “I’m so sorry, I’ll just leave this . . . I didn’t mean, um, that is . . .”

  But it was not a quarrel. At least, not as most people would understand the word.

  Gray had turned up, as he did almost every day now at some time or other, given a slight tap on the knocker and walked in. Lately she had invariably invited him to do this so he thought it would be all right.

  Sarah had been leaning against the old stone fireplace, her arms gripping the far edges of the mantel, her head pressed against the edge. Still as a statue.

  Gray, thinking she may not have heard him come in, gave a quiet cough. Sarah whirled round, gasping as from a sudden blow. Although Gray had made no attempt to approach her, she raised her arm as if to fend him off.

  “What on earth is it?”

  “Go away.”

  “Sarah, what’s the matter?”

  “How dare you just walk in here without knocking!”

  “I didn’t. That is, I did. Knock. I don’t think you heard me.” He took in her white, strained face and staring bloodshot eyes. She was biting her mouth, making a great effort at self-control. A great welt, so red it looked almost raw, lay across her forehead.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “No.”

  “But your eyes—”

  “It’s the pollen. All right?”

  “Don’t be angry.” She must have been rubbing, almost banging her head against the stone to make a mark like that. “What on earth’s wrong?”

  “Go away.”

  “How can I just—”

  “It’s simple. There’s the door.”

  “With you looking like—”

  “Go away!”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Mind your own bloody business.”

  Back to square one then and with a vengeance, thought Gray. It was as if their amiable conversations in her ramshackle house and lovely wild garden had never happened. He had not deluded himself that these had ever been of a romantic nature but he did think that he and Sarah were slowly becoming friends. Foolishly he had imagined a bond between them.

  Well, friends or no friends, he had no intention of leaving her in this state. He walked into the kitchen and started to fill the kettle.

  She shouted angrily, “What are you doing?”

  “Making some tea. After you’ve drunk it, if you still want me to, I’ll go.” He sensed that she had followed him; then saw her shadow fall across the old wooden table. “Unless you feel the need to tell me about it.”

  “I just want to be by myself.” Drained of all vitality, she was leaning her full weight against the door frame. Her gold and silver hair was a damp, lustreless tangle. “Please don’t mess around with that.”

  “Sorry.” Gray hesitated then switched the kettle off. He noticed that the front of her sky-blue shirt was covered in damp patches. She must have been crying for hours. Tentatively he reached out and touched her hand which was cold and heavy as a stone.

  “Look, Sarah, plainly something dreadful’s happened. Won’t you let me try and help?”

  Ignoring him, she moved back into the sitting room with a slow, dragging walk painfully unlike her usual confident stride. Touched now as much by pity as by concern, Gray followed. As he passed the marble slab, he noticed the warrior’s head had disappeared. In its place was a heap of dirty clay, deeply indented as if from many severe blows.

  “Please tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Tears of rage and despair sprang into her eyes. She shuddered then gave vent to a harsh explosive sound. “You make me laugh. You’re no different from everyone else in this nosy cesspit of a village. Always on the look-out for a juicy bit of tittle-tattle.”

  Her misery made the injustice of this remark irrelevant. In any case he was sure that, even as she mouthed the words, Sarah knew they were not true. She made a few more vaguely unkind, rather rambling comments then faltered into silence.

  He watched her gradually become calm but in a terrible apathetic way which was worse than her original anger. Her mouth was haggard with grief.

  Yes, thought Gray, that was the word exactly. Grief. She was mourning someone. A dear friend? A lover? Not a parent, for he knew both of them had been dead for some years.

  And then, for absolutely no logical reason except perhaps propinquity, Alan Hollingsworth’s name came into his mind. And though it seemed a baseless, even cranky notion, it would not go away. He told himself this was nonsense. Sarah had never mentioned the man, appeared barely to know him. But he could not let the idea rest.

  “You’ve been . . . bereaved, Sarah, is that it?”

  “Yes, oh yes,” cried Sarah. As if alarmed at this spontaneous outburst, she pressed her hands over her mouth.

  Gray knew that the balance of the scene was his. Bereft and fragile, she would have neither the energy nor the concentration to deceive. The phrase “strike while the iron’s hot” seemed brutally appropriate.

  Shamedly telling himself that he was acting purely in Sarah’s interests, Gray said, “Was it Alan?”

  She was standing over by the window with her back towards him. For a few moments he thought she was going to pretend she had not heard the question. In which case he was quite prepared to put it again. But then she turned to face him. Though pale, she was struggling to compose herself. Only the fingers were busy, tugging at her clothes. Her voice was low and still husky from crying.

  “Why did he do it, Gray? I mean, take his own life over a woman like that, trivial . . . greedy . . .”

  There was a pause during which Gray realised his teeth were so tightly clenched together his jaw ached. Eventually he said, “I’m sorry but I don’t understand why you are so upset.” Deliberately he emphasised the “you.”

  “It’s a question of responsibility.” This was said after some hesitation. It seemed to Gray that she had been searching for an explanation that would be credible yet removed from all intimacy. “He must have been hiding behind those curtains in absolute despair. Drinking, maybe weeping. If someone had gone in, talked to him . . .”

  “It was tried. He wouldn’t open the door.”

  “I didn’t try.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Aahh . . .” T
he cry of anguish flared around the room. Neither of them heard the knock at the door. And then suddenly, to Gray’s surprise and intense disappointment, there was a third person present.

  He watched Sarah struggle to regain her equilibrium. She seemed almost to welcome the interruption and asked Mrs. Jennings, who was plainly embarrassed and poised for flight, to stay.

  Understanding that this invitation had been made solely for the purpose of getting rid of him, Gray saw no point in hanging around. The moment of revelation had passed and, in retaliation for his momentary cruelty, he had received naught for his comfort.

  Serve me right, he thought as he hurried home. He wondered what he should do now. Offer his shoulder as a staunch friend? He couldn’t, in all honesty, be sympathetic. Was it possible that an intelligent, lovely women like Sarah could really have cared for Hollingsworth of all people? That boring, screwed-up, money-grubbing slime ball.

  Making his way past the blue piceas that screened his house, Gray discovered a police car parked on the drive. He did not object to the officer’s request that he come down to the station to help them further with their inquiries. In fact, he rather welcomed the distraction.

  It was all rather different this time round. Perhaps it was the alien setting: a cheerless room with cold blue walls, a floor of some dimpled black synthetic stuff and hard, wooden-backed chairs. The only bright spot was an extremely detailed poster of a Colorado beetle in full technicolour with instructions as to what to do should you be lucky enough to obtain a sighting.

  He had been given a cup of tea by the detectives who had previously called at his house. They, too, looked different. Sterner and less approachable, inevitably at an advantage on their own pitch. The older one switched on a recorder, dated the tape, described who was present. The younger, the man who had been so nice to Bess, paced about, unsmiling.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Patterson.”

  “I got the impression I didn’t have a lot of choice, Inspector . . . Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “DCI Barnaby.”

  “Been a long while since I’ve been chauffeured anywhere.” Patterson laughed awkwardly. Whilst not exactly ill at ease, he appeared puzzled at his sudden transportation into the heart of Causton CID.

  Barnaby smiled in return. No reason not to at this stage.

  “Do we have to have that thing on?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. And as much for your sake as ours.” No one ever believed that, but it was true.

  “What do you want to see me about?”

  “Just one or two more questions.”

  “But I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “The day Mrs. Hollingsworth disappeared, Thursday, June the sixth. Do you remember where you were then? What you were doing?”

  “Why?”

  “Just answer the question, please, Mr. Patterson,” said Sergeant Troy.

  “I sign on on Thursday. A touch humiliating but I’m getting used to it. Beggars can’t—”

  “Where would this be?”

  “Causton DSS. I went in just before half twelve. Did the deed, felt depressed as one always does afterwards. Went into the Job Centre to no effect then decided to go to a movie.”

  “Which one?” asked Troy.

  “Goldeneye. The new James Bond. I thought I could do with a spot of escapism. And the seats are cheap in the afternoon.”

  “What time would that be?”

  “Around two thirty, I guess. They’d have the exact time, I assume, at the cinema.”

  “And when did you come out?”

  “Five-ish.”

  “Where did you go then?”

  “I drove straight home.”

  “Did you go out again that night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone you knew, if only by sight, all the time you were out?”

  “Not that I noticed. But that doesn’t mean no one saw me. Look, what on earth’s the point of all this?”

  “We feel it may be relevant to our inquiries, Mr. Patterson.”

  “How, relevant?”

  Barnaby saw no reason not to explain. He took the latest edition of the Evening Standard from his desk drawer and laid it, front page uppermost, in front of Patterson.

  He picked up the paper and gazed at it blankly. He shook his head once or twice then stared, first at one policeman and then the other, in stupefied amazement.

  Barnaby stared calmly back. Stupefied amazement neither fazed nor impressed him. Neither did deep incredulity or gobsmacked disbelief. The last time he had seen such a convincing representation was on the face of a multiple rapist for whose capture he had been directly responsible. Proven guilty beyond all shadow of a doubt, the man had left the dock throwing his arms in the air in utter bewilderment that so many learned people could come to such an unbelievably erroneous conclusion.

  “Kidnapped? Simone?”

  “That’s right,” said Sergeant Troy. “Know anything about it, do you, sir?”

  “What?”

  “They’ve asked a ransom of fifty thousand,” Barnaby explained. “A nice, round figure, wouldn’t you say?”

  Patterson hardly looked capable of saying anything. Eventually he made a noise that sounded like “crark?”

  “Add on the sparklers,” said Troy, “and there’s you with your money back. Plus fifty for your trouble.”

  “Or perhaps you regard it as a redundancy payment, Mr. Patterson.”

  “Sorry . . . um . . .” He peered at them both, straining as if through a fog. “Sparklers?”

  “A diamond necklace worth over two hundred thousand pounds has vanished from Nightingales. And also, we believe, an extremely valuable ring.”

  “Well, I didn’t take it.”

  “You don’t deny you’ve been there?”

  “I only went into his office. I told you.”

  “Is that a fact?” The house having been cleaned many times since Patterson’s visit, there would be no trace of his prints. A comforting bit of information that Barnaby saw no reason to pass on.

  “Two hundred . . . ?”

  Barnaby watched the numerical coincidence take hold. Patterson’s eyes became even rounder than the O of his mouth.

  “Do you know when he bought it?” Patterson asked.

  “Three months ago.”

  “Just after . . .”

  “Immediately after,” affirmed Sergeant Troy, regrettably with some pleasure.

  “Are you trying to say that my life has been ruined,” Patterson lurched to his feet, “for a piece of bloody jewellery?”

  Troy took a seat then, next to his boss. Both detectives sat quietly, waiting and watching. The tape hissed.

  “I find that . . . Oh, shit, what a bastard . . . bastard . . . bloody hell . . .”

  Patterson rambled on in this manner as the anger slowly leaked out of him. He slumped back into his seat. “I suppose it was for her.” He sounded flat and tired. “His wife.”

  “Unless he’s been sleeping around. Do you think that’s very likely?”

  “No. As I’ve said before, Alan just gets obsessed with one person. Runs them into the ground. Then starts all over again on someone else.”

  The Chief Inspector, having heard Hollingsworth’s anguish after the disappearance of his wife so graphically described by both Perrot and the Reverend Bream, had not seriously expected any other reply. A further thought occurred.

  “Do you remember if he lashed out like this during his first marriage?”

  “Lashed out?”

  “Financially.”

  “Oh.” He thought for a moment then said, “I think he might have. I know he bought Miriam a fur coat once after they’d had a row and he was feeling very remorseful.” Patterson laughed briefly. “It wouldn’t have cut much ice with her.”

  “How well did you know the second Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  “You asked me that the other day.”

  “Well, we’re asking you again,” snapped Sergeant
Troy.

  “Nothing’s changed,” said Patterson shortly. “I hardly knew her then and I hardly know her now.”

  “Did she ever visit your house?”

  “No.”

  “Or ring you up?”

  “No.”

  “Did you meet on any occasion outside the village?”

  “No!”

  “Did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth at all before she met and married her husband?”

  “Of course not.” There was no trace of anxiety in Patterson’s voice, only irritation, increasing by the minute.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Umm . . . I suppose that time in the phone box. I told you, the other day.”

  “Ah yes.”

  “I don’t understand why—”

  “Were you aware that Hollingsworth left a suicide note?”

  “How could I be?”

  “On a computer. Trouble is, there were no prints on the keyboard.”

  “Really?” Gray Patterson frowned. He looked interested but in a detached way, like a man faced with an interesting problem. “Why would he do that? Wipe them all off?”

  “Why indeed.”

  “Did he print the message out?”

  “No.”

  “Very strange.”

  “We are considering the possibility that Mr. Hollingsworth did not, in fact, key the note himself.”

  Barnaby watched that go home. Observed Patterson’s sudden unnatural stillness. The way his palms pressed on the metal table. And how the skin tightened along his jaw. Even his curls seemed flattened as if the force of what he had just heard was blowing against him like a gale. He sought consolation and shelter.

  “You mean it was an accident?”

  “People who die by accident don’t spring up again for a few last words,” said Sergeant Troy.

  “Of course not.” His face was wiped clear of all impression. “So that leaves . . .”

  “I can see you’re way ahead of us, Mr. Patterson.”

  “And naturally you thought of me.”

  “That’s right.” Barnaby noted his suspect’s continuing immobility. And wondered whether it was due to extreme caution or extreme shock. “So you will understand that I must question you again about your movements on the night of Alan Hollingsworth’s death. And ask you to think very carefully indeed before you reply.”