Rainstone Fall

by Peter Helton

  I called Tim on my mobile. Mixing business with pleasure had always been my preferred way of working. It took Tim all of ten minutes to get here in his black Audi TT from his tiny flat in Northampton Street. He never needed much encouragement. A gang of girls was noisily leaving just as he arrived and we pounced on their table full of empty Bacardi Breezer bottles.

  ‘So, an emergency night out at the Rosie? It was short notice but naturally I dropped everything,’ Tim said as he parked himself opposite me with a pint of Löwenbräu and a giant packet of parsnip crisps. I pointed out James Lane, safely engrossed in his book.

  ‘Oh, him.’ Tim nodded his woolly head. ‘I’ve seen him in here before. Sometimes with mates but mostly by himself, reading. So you think the walking stick’s just a prop?’

  ‘A walking stick’s always a prop.’

  ‘A stage prop, you pedant.’

  ‘That’s what Griffin’s are paying me to find out.’

  Tim had been tugging with his broad fists at both ends of his crisp bag which now suddenly yet predictably split open, decorating our table, our beers and our neighbours’ beers with deep-fried parsnip shavings. ‘Help yourselves, everyone,’ he offered.

  This was one of several mysteries surrounding Tim. His tiny flat with its dust-free banks of computer hardware and pathologically clean, gadgety kitchen contrasted so sharply with the mess that happened when you let Tim anywhere near food that I’d long suspected he ate in the shower. With the water running.

  It was quite a while ago now that Tim and I discovered we had more in common than a love of pubs, food and risky jobs, namely: Annis. Whether Annis was eventually going to own up to sleeping with both of us even if I hadn’t walked in on them one night is another question I never asked her. That she managed to induce us to share her favours rather than make her choose between us is a measure of her persuasiveness. There were certain conditions attached to this arrangement though. One was that ‘Three is Company’. The other one was the kind of discretion that precluded the comparison of notes. We quickly learned to ignore, too, the fact that Annis seemed to make all the decisions in this affair and treated her like a force of nature. A bit like weather, really.

  We talked about the weather for a bit – there’d been a lot of it recently – while I kept an eye on Lane. He was so engrossed in his book, he groped around for his pint rather than take his eyes off the print. Tim interrupted his description of how the trees in his neighbourhood had suffered in the storm and tapped my arm. ‘That kid with the black curls has been staring at us, I think he wants to talk to you.’

  He looked too young to get served in a pub but took a fortifying swig from a pint of lager as soon as I looked up. He wore the latest evolution of pre-ruined jeans and holey sweater and was being nudged towards us from behind by a bottle-blonde girl in a similar outfit who if anything looked even younger. Both wore expensive trainers which suggested they were in the Rosie by choice, not because they couldn’t afford a night in a more fashionable city centre pub. ‘Okay, okay,’ he complained to the girl over his shoulder, then composed his most streetwise expression and came up to our table.

  ‘Ehm, hi, ehm, the, ehhhh landlady said you’re a, ehm, private dick . . . ehm . . . tective.’ The girl behind him turned her eyes heavenwards and stuck her studiously bored face into a pint of bitter. I hoped for his sake that they were friends. It would last longer that way.

  I nodded encouragingly at him, don’t ask why. ‘She’s right.’ I’d once helped the landlady to find out who was pinching her empty kegs, gas-axing them in half lengthways and turning them into cut-price barbecues. Drinks were still on the house. The boy was blocking my view of Lane so I told him: ‘Why don’t you sit down.’ He did. The girl did likewise, tucked her hair behind her ears, crossed her legs and focused her eyes into the middle distance. Nothing to do with her. The bloke looked at her for help, saw he wasn’t getting any, took a deep breath and said quickly: ‘There’s going to be a murder. Or, or two even. I think.’

  ‘Tell it properly, tell him what you told me,’ the girl urged impatiently. She took out a blue tin of tobacco hand-painted with stars and moons and proceeded to roll a fat cigarette.

  The boy pulled his dark eyebrows together in concentration and stared deep into his pint for inspiration. ‘It was last Sunday, ehm, at night. I was out late and, eh, walking home up the hill and they came out from the footpath. It was dark so they didn’t see me and they were talking and, ehm, one said something about someone called Albert having been “nosing about”. “Just like the old witch,” said the other one, “sniffing around at night.” And then the other one said “Maybe we should arrange for them to have a little accident”.’ He looked up at me, visibly relieved at having finished this long and involved story.

  ‘Wha eshi-nashy?’ asked Tim through a mouth full of parsnip crisps.

  ‘What else did they say?’ I translated.

  ‘Nothing. I mean I don’t know. I just stood and waited until they were gone completely. I didn’t want them to know I’d heard.’

  ‘Did you recognize them?’

  ‘It was too dark. They were big blokes though.’

  ‘Did they have any particular accent?’

  ‘Didn’t notice any accent,’ he mused.

  Probably local then. ‘How old did they sound to you?’

  ‘Older than me.’

  ‘That narrows it down to forty million people,’ I complained.

  Tim came to his rescue. ‘Older like him?’ He pointed at me. ‘Or older like me?’ he asked smiling, being a comfortable ten years younger than me.

  ‘Oh, old like him.’ The boy pointed at me. How rude.

  ‘That does narrow it down,’ Tim assured him.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. And where did this happen?’ I asked distractedly because Lane had got up. But he was only walking to the bar, using his faithful stick.

  ‘Down the valley, just past the Lane End Farm turn-off.’ He pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Swainswick.

  The girl set her pint hard on the table and blew cigarette smoke at me. ‘You’re not going to do anything about it, are you? You’re not really listening. I knew the police wouldn’t but aren’t you supposed to help people when the police can’t be bothered or is that just on TV?’

  ‘No, no, it’s a bit like that, I guess, though nothing’s quite like it is on TV. Especially murder. So what would you like me to do about it?’

  ‘If I knew what to do about it I’d do it myself,’ she snapped, suddenly no longer bored. ‘You’re the detective, you’re supposed to know what to do in a case like this.’

  A case like this? ‘Two blokes talking on the way home from the pub, probably pissed . . . Do you know any Alberts? Who might be nosy? Or a witch?’

  ‘I don’t know any Alberts but there can’t be that many, can there? It’s an old man’s name, no one’s called Albert any more,’ she pointed out. ‘But I do know an old witch. So does Cairn.’ She nodded in the boy’s direction. ‘Lots of people know about her.’

  ‘Do they now. And what’s her name?’

  ‘I don’t know her name. We just call her the Old Witch. Actually she’s not that old. More . . . old like him.’ She pointed her chin at Tim, who stopped smiling at her.

  ‘And has she had an accident lately?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? I haven’t seen her for ages. So she could be dead, couldn’t she? No one would know.’ She fixed me with steady gas-blue eyes. Her friend nodded tiny nods.

  ‘And where exactly is her place?’

  ‘Give him the map,’ she instructed him.

  He half stood up so he could pull a bent piece of paper from his back pocket.

  I took it from him and stashed it in my jacket. ‘Next time I have a spare moment I’ll check it out.’ I was planning on not having such a moment for a long time.

  The boy looked relieved for a second, then worried again. ‘So that’s it, we hired you? How much is it going to cost?�
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  ‘What? Oh . . . ehm.’ I looked at Tim for help but he just raised one eyebrow, something else I wished I could do.

  ‘Look, I’ll let you know,’ I said eventually. ‘Don’t worry about it, okay? What are your names?’

  ‘I’m Cairn, she’s Heather.’

  ‘There’s some kind of pattern there,’ I mused.

  ‘Our mum’s Scottish,’ said Heather.

  ‘Ah, brother and sister,’ I concluded.

  ‘Wow, you really are a detective then,’ she said drily.

  ‘No doubt about it. I’m Chris and the big woolly one’s Tim. And now, if you don’t mind . . . we were in the middle of discussing another case . . .’

  ‘Oh, okay. We come in here quite a lot,’ Cairn assured me.

  ‘Come on.’ Heather dragged him away.

  ‘So, are you going to check it out?’ asked Tim when they were out of earshot. He was hunting about for bits of crisp between the bottles on the table.

  ‘Are you kidding? Not until I find the morning headline screams “Nosy Albert Has Little Accident”.’

  James Lane did nothing more interesting that night than visit the Gents at regular intervals. If anything, his reliance on the walking stick seemed to increase with each pint he drank. During one of his toilet breaks I walked over to his chair and pretended to warm myself by the little fire while checking out his reading material. I nudged the book off the chair with my knee so I could pick it up and read the title. The Great Crown Jewels Robbery of 1303. Whatever gets you through the day . . .

  * * *

  Bribery doesn’t deserve all the bad press it’s had. Hey, bribery can be fun! That morning I bribed Annis with her favourite breakfast (hot croissant, quince jam, five-minute egg and a cafetière of freshly ground Colombian coffee) to drive me back to Larkhall where I’d left the DS in the Oriel Hall car park the night before due to a certain degree of inebriation. I’d flagged down a passing minicab and offered the driver the entirety of my cash reserves for a lift home. An expensive exercise since it’s quite a few miles from there to Mill House but anything was better than losing my licence. A private detective without a car was an impossible proposition.

  I enjoyed feeding her anyway. She always attacked food as though she hadn’t seen any for a week. Her disposition invariably sweetened while she demolished what you put in front of her and she always had that is-there-any-more look at the end of it.

  Annis topped up the fuel in her ancient Landy, always a good idea with a beast that drank more than its fair share of the dwindling oil reserves, then sat fiddling and mumbling behind the wheel. Eventually she persuaded the thing to start.

  ‘Full moon soon,’ she explained. ‘It’s always temperamental round the full moon.’

  I didn’t say a word. I was long used to Annis’s firm belief that the thing was alive and needed to be treated like a slightly batty elderly relative. Secretly I thought it was just a ruse to deter people from wanting to borrow it.

  I had less success with trying to talk her into going halves on the surveillance of James Lane. ‘I didn’t tell you to take the job,’ she rightly but annoyingly pointed out as we rumbled along the track.

  ‘The roof needs repairing. Both roofs. How am I, how are we going to pay for it?’

  Annis frowned. ‘How have we always paid for stuff?’ she wondered.

  ‘Sold a few paintings, found some money in an old tin somewhere, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Well, you check the old tins while I do some work in the studio, if you don’t mind. Seriously, you’re not the only one who needs to crack on with some painting. I promised the Glasshouse Gallery in St Ives four canvases for a mixed show and they only want to show new work. So do I of course. I’m afraid you’re stuck with this surveillance thing for now. How’s it look so far?’

  ‘Like a man walking with a stick.’

  A few minutes later I waved her goodbye in St Saviour’s Road, out of view from Lane’s windows which overlooked the car park where I’d left the DS. I walked the last few yards, sauntered along the line of cars while scanning the house for signs of life. It was a dank, dark morning and I registered with relief that the lights were on downstairs.

  I fumbled in my pockets for my car keys. Nothing. Not there. Then I registered first with disbelief and then with a feeling like a punch in the gut that the car wasn’t there either. Gone, disappeared. Twenty parking spaces in the row and every one of them taken. Not a Citroën among them. I clearly remembered which space I’d left it in. That one. Or that one. Next to an old mud-coloured Volvo estate. I was beginning to feel stupid pacing up and down in front of the cars carrying the essential bit of private-eye kit, my thermos flask of black coffee. A couple of shoppers walking past gave me suspicious looks. There was only one thing to do, even for a private detective.

  If you ever need a demonstration of polite boredom then report your car stolen (though wait until it has been stolen, obviously).

  ‘You’re not going to send someone out here?’ I moaned.

  ‘There really wouldn’t be much point, Mr Honeysett. I’ll take your details now but you’ll still have to come into the station and fill in the form . . .’

  Great, just when you’re stranded without a motor. I don’t know what I had expected, a SWAT team and a vanload of technicians dusting the world for fingerprints of the nefarious car thieves and a counsellor for my post-automotive stress . . . What I hadn’t expected was a load of nothing. Now completely deflated I gave the guy the details. He was unlikely to be a police officer himself and there was no telling whether he took the call from Bath, Bristol or Bogotá. ‘The DS21, that’s the one with the swivelling headlights, isn’t it? Nice . . .’

  Looking up from my misery I saw that I’d nearly missed Lane leaving the house. I told the guy I’d come down to Manvers Street police station later, terminated the call and followed my target left. After only a few yards he sat down on the bench by the bus stop at the Larkhall Inn. He was dressed like the night before in grey waterproof jacket, jeans and trainers and this morning was carrying a blue shoulder bag. He stood by the kerb, blearily looking at the wet tarmac. Two women were also waiting, one with a pushchair already folded up and a listless child standing snottily by her side, and a guy in a raincoat I recognized as the other reader from the pub was sitting on the bench. I went and pretended to study the timetable. Then I actually did study it and realized I couldn’t make sense of it at all. One of those small yellow buses drew up. In the corner of my eye I could see Lane shuffling forward. It suddenly occurred to me that I might have to pay hard cash to use this service. Lane seemed to have some kind of pass that allowed him to ride for free. I got on whilst hunting around for change in my pockets. Nothing. I didn’t think they’d accept plastic so kept furtling about and eventually located something promising deep in the lining of my leather jacket. I apologized to the driver while I stood, thermos between my knees, one of my arms halfway down a torn jacket pocket, clawing for the money. At last I managed to close my hand on the coins and pulled them out: two shillings.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said feebly to no one in particular and got off the bus which pulled eagerly away with Lane on board.

  Shillings? Just how old was this leather jacket? This was getting ridiculous. I unscrewed the top of the vacuum flask and took a draught of hot black coffee. It cheered me up just long enough to find the post office and use their cash machine to furnish myself with some readies. When I got outside the heavens opened again and I got soaked before I’d even decided what to do next. I hadn’t been without my own transport for more than fifteen minutes and I was already heartily sick of it. If I ever caught up with who had taken the DS I’d happily throttle them. I was sorely tempted to call for a cab but taking taxis everywhere wasn’t going to help pay the roofers so I padded along in the rain to the next bus stop near the surprisingly large church and hopped on the first one that came along. It ground up and rattled down hills and seemed to be going in circles without
really getting anywhere but it was dry and it beat standing in the rain, though only just.

  ‘The DS21, that’s the one with the swivelling headlights, isn’t it?’ asked Sergeant Hayes, looking over the completed form. I’d finally made it to Manvers Street police station.

  ‘It is.’ It was. The DS had four headlights, two of which turned left and right as you turned the wheel, lighting your way around sharp bends.

  ‘Probably joyriders, Honeysett. If you’re lucky then they didn’t set fire to it at the end of the night.’ He flashed me a grin that bared his white but uneven teeth.

  ‘I didn’t think joyriders would be interested in a thirty-year-old left-hand drive. And why are we calling them joyriders? They’re damn car thieves and I don’t feel any joy.’

  ‘The joy’s all theirs. Until we catch up with them, that is. We’re allowed to ram them now to stop them, like the Americans. They call it the PIT manoeuvre,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Ram them? I don’t want you to ram them, it’s a classic car!’ I protested.

  ‘I’ve seen your car, it’s a tatty old heap, Honeysett, and I’m sure the MOT on it is dodgy. If we do find it we’ll make sure it’s roadworthy before returning it to you.’