The Long Kill

by Reginald Hill

  The probing questions had ceased as though by mutual agreement during lunch, which was a simple though delicious meal of baked trout and green salad followed by a freshly baked bramble pie, all washed down with a crisp Moselle. Bryant was industrious in topping up Jaysmith’s glass, and when it was suggested they return to the garden to drink their coffee, the accompanying brandy balloon was full enough to swim a goldfish.

  Still icily sober, Jaysmith decided to let the relaxation Bryant obviously hoped for work for him.

  ‘Anya,’ he said mellowly as she handed him a cup of coffee. ‘That’s a lovely name you chose for your daughter, Bryant.’

  Glancing at him with surprise, the woman said, ‘Less buxom than Annie, certainly. We established that.’

  Jaysmith smiled and she smiled back, a shared joke which momentarily excluded her father.

  Bryant said abruptly, ‘It was my mother’s name. Anya Winnika.’

  ‘Polish?’ said Jaysmith, trying to make his interest casual. ‘Were you born in Poland then?’

  Bryant did not look as if he was going to answer, but Anya, as if concerned at any hint of rudeness to their guest, said quickly, ‘Pappy was a law student in Warsaw till 1939. He got out when the Nazis invaded.’

  ‘And the Russians,’ interrupted Bryant harshly. ‘Don’t forget the Russians came in from the east at the same time.’

  ‘And your parents, did they get out with you?’

  Bryant lit another Caporal from the one he was smoking.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘They thought they could sit it out. Why not? How many invasions over the centuries had poor Poland had to sit out! I wasn’t any wiser than they were, just younger and more impatient. I followed the provisional government first to France then to England. I found out later that when the Nazis came, they requisitioned our family house for one of their senior officers. As for my parents, they were moved into the ghetto. My mother was Jewish, you see. Not orthodox; far from it; and she had cut herself off completely by marrying a Gentile. It took the Nazis to reunite her with her people. My father went with her of course. He was a gentle man, trusting in human nature almost to the point of foolishness. But they’d have had to shoot him to stop him accompanying mamma. The next time I saw Warsaw it was in ruins. Our house had survived but now there was a Russian general in it. It was a small change, hardly noticeable.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  He shrugged massively.

  ‘Who knows? The ghetto uprising of ’43; the resistance uprising of ’44; in one or the other they died, and so many with them that nowhere in the whole of that ruined city could I find a memory or a trace of their passing. Think of that, Mr Hutton, if you can. Think of that!’

  Anya put her hand on her father’s arm and Jaysmith sipped his brandy for warmth. The sun still shone, but a chill seemed to have risen in this peaceful valley.

  ‘You speak excellent English,’ said Jaysmith with a deliberate banality.

  It worked. Bryant coughed a laugh and said, ‘And why the hell shouldn’t I? I’ve been speaking it longer than you, Hutton. I learned it first from my grandfather when I was a child. He was an Englishman, you see, sent to look after his firm’s affairs in Gdansk – Danzig, it was then – in the 1880s. He never went back. When World War One came, he took his Polish wife’s name and moved to Warsaw. And after the Second World War was over and I saw that the Russians had a stronghold on my country, and realized that my life was to be in England, well, I reversed the process and reverted to my true patronym. I really am Steven Bryant, Hutton. Or, more properly, Stefan Bryant. Much more reassuring, isn’t it, than something full of Ks and Zs?’

  ‘Reassuring to whom?’

  ‘To solid English burghers looking for someone to do a bit of conveyancing for them,’ said Bryant. ‘But I’m sorry to have bored you with my family history. In the interests of equity, I will now keep quiet, and you must take your chance of telling us something about the Huttons and their origins.’

  He smiled satirically as he spoke and he and Anya settled into near-caricatures of close attentiveness.

  A trade-off! thought Jaysmith. He would much rather have relaxed and examined what Bryant had told him, looking for clues to his potentially fatal connection with Jacob.

  But he needed all his mental powers now to concentrate on the lies he was about to tell. Glancing at Anya, he was filled with shame, but there seemed to be no choice. But rescue was at hand. Inside the house a voice called, ‘Mum? Gramp?’

  Anya turned her head, tautening the line from chin through neck in a way which caught at Jaysmith’s breath, and called, ‘Jimmy! We’re out in the garden.’

  A moment later a boy of about six ran out onto the terrace. He pulled up short when he saw Jaysmith, then resumed his approach more sedately.

  ‘Jimmy, this is Mr Hutton. Jay, this is my son, Jimmy.’

  ‘Hello,’ said the boy. He was small, with his mother’s brown eyes but much fairer both of hair and complexion. His expression at the moment was rather solemn and serious, but any suggestion of premature maturity was contradicted by a chocolate stain under his lower lip and a comprehensive graze of the right knee.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jaysmith.

  He held out his hand. Before the boy could shake it, he turned it over to reveal that there was a fifty-pence piece in the palm. Slowly he made it move across the undulations of his knuckles and back again. Then he tossed it high in the air, caught it with his left hand and immediately offered both hands, fists clenched, to the boy who studied them with that look of calm appraisal Jaysmith knew from his mother.

  ‘What’s the problem, Jimmy?’ said Bryant after a while.

  ‘Well, I know it’s in that one,’ said the boy pointing to the left hand. ‘Only, it’s probably not, as it’s a trick, and it’ll be in that one.’

  ‘You’ve got to choose, Jimmy,’ said Anya. ‘That’s what the game is, choosing.’

  Her eyes met Jaysmith’s for a moment.

  ‘All right,’ said the boy with the certainty of defeat. ‘That one.’

  Slowly Jaysmith opened his left hand to show an empty palm.

  ‘I knew it’d be the other after all,’ said Jimmy with resignation.

  Jaysmith opened his right hand. It was empty too. Then he shot his left hand forward and apparently plucked the coin from Jimmy’s ear. He handed it to the boy who took it dubiously and glanced at his mother.

  ‘Is it mine?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘You’d better ask Mr Hutton.’

  ‘It’s certainly not mine,’ said Jaysmith. ‘Would you want a coin that’s been kept in someone else’s ear?’

  The boy laughed joyously and thrust the coin into his pocket.

  ‘Thanks a million!’ he cried. ‘Mum, what’s for tea?’

  ‘Nothing till you’ve washed your face and I’ve put some antiseptic on that knee,’ said his mother.

  She took him firmly by the hand and led him into the house.

  ‘Nice kid,’ said Jaysmith. ‘He looks fine.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’ said Bryant.

  ‘An only child without a father, it can be tough. Does he talk about him much?’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Bryant. ‘Children are resilient, Mr Hutton. A boy needs a man around, that’s true. Well, Jimmy’s got me, so that’s all right.’

  He spoke with controlled aggression.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Jaysmith. ‘How long has it been since his father died?’

  ‘Last December.’

  ‘What was it? Illness? Accident?’

  ‘Climbing accident,’ said Bryant shortly. ‘But I think my daughter’s business ought really to be discussed with my daughter, don’t you? Another drop of brandy?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Jaysmith rising. ‘It’s late. If school’s out, it’s time I was going. Goodbye, Mr Bryant. Thanks for your help and your hospitality.’

  He stretched out his hand. Bryant took it and gave it a perfunctory shake without rising.

&n
bsp; ‘Glad to have you with us,’ he said. ‘I hope Anya asks you again. Grose will get the conveyance under way.’

  He found Anya in the kitchen bathing her son’s knee. The boy’s face was screwed up in mock agony.

  ‘I must be off,’ said Jaysmith. ‘It’s been a splendid day.’

  ‘Are you coming to Carlisle with us on Saturday?’ asked the boy.

  Jaysmith raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

  ‘There’s a soccer match,’ said Anya gloomily. ‘He’s conned his grandfather and me into taking him as a pre-birthday treat.’

  ‘Birthday?’

  ‘That’s the following Saturday. Fortunately Carlisle United are playing down south that day, so he’ll have to make do with a party instead.’

  ‘Please come,’ urged the boy.

  ‘Well, I’d love to come to the party, if I’m asked, but I can’t make the match. I’ve got to go down to London tomorrow and I may have to stay away a couple of days.’

  He thought Anya looked disappointed but it may have been wishful thinking.

  ‘I’ve been to London,’ said Jimmy. ‘Granddad Wilson lives there.’

  ‘And Mr Hutton will soon be living up here. He’s buying Great-Aunt Muriel’s house.’

  The boy digested this.

  ‘Is Great-Aunt Muriel dead?’ he asked.

  ‘No, of course not! She’s just moving down into the village. Jay, if you can hang on till I finish with this monster, I’ll see you out.’

  Jaysmith said, ‘I’ll use the bathroom if I may.’

  He went upstairs and swiftly checked the landing windows. They were double glazed and fitted with what looked like new security locks. He had already noticed an alarm box high up under the eaves. He opened a bedroom door at random. It proved to be Anya’s. The straw handbag she’d been carrying in Keswick was tossed casually onto the bed. He opened it and was amazed at the quantity of bric-à-brac it held. After a little rummaging, he came up with a key ring which he bore off with him into the bathroom. He locked the door and sat on the edge of the bath. Ignoring the car keys, he carefully made prints of the three others in a large cake of soap. It was a process he had seen used in television thrillers but not one he’d ever had occasion to try for himself. Carefully he wrapped the soap in his handkerchief, removed all traces from the keys, flushed the toilet and unlocked the door. Swiftly he made for Anya’s bedroom but stopped dead on the threshold.

  Anya was standing by the bed in the process of shaking out the contents of her handbag onto the coverlet.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, becoming aware of his presence. ‘Won’t be a sec. I wanted my car keys and as usual they seem to have sunk to the bottom. I keep far too much rubbish in here.’

  She resumed her shaking. He stepped into the room, put his hands on her shoulders, and spun her round to face him. He drew her to him and kissed her passionately as he dropped the keys onto the bedspread. It was more successful than his attempt on the Crinkles in that she did not thrust him off but nor did she return the kiss and when he broke off she said calmly, ‘Is it the sight of a bed which brings out the brute in you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I just wanted to assure you that I’d be coming back.’

  ‘Why should I doubt it? After all, you are buying a house up here. Oh, there they are.’

  She had turned away from him and seen the keys.

  ‘Am I moving too fast?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Not as long as the finance is in order, no,’ she said judiciously. ‘Aunt Muriel won’t want to hang about, you know.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I’ve only met you three, no, four times,’ she replied passionately. ‘How on earth should I know if I know what you mean? Or care for that matter?’

  She left the room and he followed her down the old creaking staircase. In the hallway he said lightly, ‘You’re well protected, I see.’

  She glanced at him to see if he was being ironical, then followed his gaze to the alarm junction box on the wall behind an old-fashioned coat rack.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit of a nuisance. I keep forgetting.’

  Idly he reached up and flicked the box open.

  ‘It looks pretty new.’

  ‘It is. We got burgled a couple of months ago. They didn’t take much, but they made a lot of mess and it was rather frightening, being so isolated. So pappy got a firm of security specialists in to tighten things up.’

  ‘Still here, Hutton? Goodbye once more.’

  Bryant had come back into the house and was standing in the doorway of what looked like a study or office.

  ‘Mum, can I have my tea now?’ demanded Jimmy, appearing at the kitchen door.

  Jaysmith looked at the three of them. They appeared as a formidable family group, each splendidly individual perhaps even to the point of willfulness, but very united too. He guessed that it was going to be hard to get one without the approval of the others.

  Soon he might have to decide how much he really wanted that one.

  But as he followed Anya out of the shady entrance hall into the ambered warmth of the autumn sunlight, and she turned and offered him her hand with a slightly crooked smile which mocked the formality of the gesture, he knew he had decided already.

  Chapter 8

  He set out for London early on Friday morning while the mists were still grazing the fellsides like the ghosts of old flocks. The pain he felt at leaving all this behind surprised him, but as he’d sat and talked to Bryant the day before, he had known he had to go. Jacob was in London, and only Jacob could tell him why Bryant had been targeted and whether the instruction was still active since the deadline. Further than that, he could not think.

  The journey down had a dreamlike quality. He drove with automatic ease, his body at rest in a soundproof cocoon, with soft upholstery, even-temperatured air and gentle music from the stereo cassette. He tried to fix his thoughts on the problems ahead but they kept on drifting back to the quiet joys of the land behind him. Four hours later, when he parked his car and stepped out into the din of Central London, it was like leaving a monastery cell for an iron foundry.

  Quickly he made his way to his flat on the west side of Soho. It was twenty years since he had come to live here. The sixties were just beginning to swing. Then, the district’s aura of urban picturesque with hints of Bohemian low-life had seemed a perfect match for the times; the old inhibitions were dying and the age of openness, freedom, and guiltless joy was being born. Not that Jaysmith had been very receptive to such optimism then, but now, for the first time, he was aware with more than just his eyes and ears of the squalid side-channels all that flood of high promise had been diverted into.

  What had seemed Bohemian was now Babylonian; what had begun as openness was now exhibitionism; the porn merchants had worked out that there was more money in joyless guilt than guiltless joy, and the only freedom celebrated in these littered streets was the one civil liberty that civilized societies never denied their citizens – their right to seek degradation and self-destruction any which way they liked.

  His flat occupied the top floor of a building which had once had a Greek restaurant at street level. Now there was an Adult Video shop. He turned into the doorway leading onto the narrow stair which ran up the side of the building. At the foot of the stairs squatted two youths with their arms round each other. One had his head shaved smooth except for a spikey orange-dyed coxcomb; the other had lank black hair and the ten o’clock shadow of an Arafat beard prickling his jowels and jaw. The Coxcomb had his face in a plastic bag, held tight around the neck. He was breathing in with pig-like snorts and when he raised his face, the glue in the bag was running like mucus round his nostrils and lips. Arafat took the bag, while he stared vacantly at Jaysmith. Neither made any attempt to move out of his way.

  Holding back his anger, Jaysmith stepped over them and made his way up the stairs. At his door he paused and looked back in case the glue-sniffers had ambitions to become mugg
ers too. All was quiet. He opened his door. It had two deadlocks on it and the windows had internal steel shutters so that the flat was in complete darkness despite the smokey sunshine outside.

  He flicked on the light and glanced at the strip of lightsensitive photographic paper which he always placed on the floor near the door immediately before leaving. As he watched, it turned black.

  He poured himself a drink and looked round, horrified at what he saw. There was no shortage of comfort – he’d been given a good start, and the money had come pumping in, thick and regular as arterial blood, after that. But what he had constructed was a prison.

  He pressed the rewind-and-play button on his answering machine. There was very little on it. Few people had his number, and fewer of those were likely to be making social calls. In fact only one message caught his attention, not really a message at all, but readable as one.

  A man’s voice exclaimed Jaysmith! That was all.

  He checked the timing of the call. It had come through less than an hour after he had phoned Enid to cancel his contract on Bryant.

  He listened to the word again.

  Jaysmith!

  The word was distorted in anger, bitten off short as though there was much else to follow but the speaker had recognized the folly of committing it to an answering machine.

  Despite the distortion, despite the brevity, he had no difficulty in recognizing the voice. It was Jacob, no doubt of that. That precise, rather nasal accent was unmistakable, even though the usual drily ironic inflexion had been replaced by something approaching rage. Any emotion which brought Jacob so close to breaking his own security must have been extreme indeed.

  The flat had two bedrooms, or rather a bedroom and a boxroom. This last contained a small workbench with a vice and various metal working tools. The kind of repairs and modifications Jaysmith occasionally wanted to make to his equipment were not to be doled out to some jobbing craftsman. Now he carefully unwrapped the soap taken from the bathroom at Naddle Foot and set about producing keys which matched the imprints in the cake.