by John Burke
‘How did you find out about those files? Who told you where things were — who let you in?’
‘Those are minor questions. Don’t try to obscure the issue. The important thing is what I found there — what my father wrote before he was killed. Before he was killed, Mr Partridge.’
There was a babble of voices in the room. All the self-restraint in the world wouldn’t hold it in. Marsh and Partridge confronted each other across the bobbing heads and the startled, upturned faces.
Andrew stepped into the middle of the tumult. He put one hand on David Marsh’s shoulder and spun him round. There was one person who could have given Marsh the information he needed to locate those files — a person for whom Andrew had provided an alibi on the night of the actual theft if she should ever need it, but who had now disappeared. He didn’t know why she had disappeared, but he was frightened.
He said: ‘Where’s Jess?’
Marsh stared blankly at him.
‘Yes,’ said Partridge. ‘Where’s Miss Rogers?’
He and Andrew had the young man pinned between them. He seemed unconcerned. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you.’ He was still looking at Andrew and his cheek muscles were flickering in that crazy smile. ‘I had the impression she was spending the weekend with you.’
A facetious voice rose from the hubbub. ‘Maybe Miss Rogers has run off with Mr Dampier. It’s a bit of a coincidence, both of them being missing, isn’t it?’
The laughter was uncertain. Marsh’s smile, however, broadened. He said: ‘An interesting line of thought. What do you think, Mr Partridge? Mr Dampier and Miss Rogers — they must know an awful lot between them. Rather uncomfortable for you, perhaps?’
‘You murdered Western,’ said Partridge again.
‘Can you think of any good reason why I should have murdered Mr Western? I’d have preferred him to live, to appear as a witness … to be under oath, when I bring my case against Intersyn. And against you in particular, Mr Partridge. As it is, I now have what will probably be called Exhibit A — my father’s notebook.’
Andrew saw the two faces close to him: the young fanatical face and the tight, grim, remorseless face of Partridge.
The idea of Dampier and Jess going off together was absurd. But where were they? Not that he gave a damn about Dampier. But that neighing ninny had been right: it was a bit of a coincidence.
David Marsh said: ‘If you’ll allow me room to breathe, I’ll tell you about what you’re pleased to call the theft from Belby. Though how it can be theft, when you had no business to be holding on to somebody else’s property in the first place … ’ He waited until the two men had stepped back and allowed him to make his way to the front of the class once more. ‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ he said. ‘Right from the beginning. I’ll tell you what really happened.’
Andrew waited for the door to open, for Jess to come in, for her to appear in the middle of a sentence. But she did not come. Where was she?
Twelve
Jessica said: ‘Don’t you see that it’s all your doing? It’s been your fault from a long way back. You must have known it would come to something like this in the end.’
‘No.’ The appalled whisper rustled round the cellar like a mouse scurrying within the walls.
A naked forty-watt bulb hung from the ceiling. The cellar was bare but not too cold. There was a bench against one wall, littered with tools which had not been used for a long time. In the faint dust that lay across the bench were the outlines of a chisel and a screwdriver, perfectly etched — tools that had recently been taken away.
And in a corner, darker than the shadows, was the hideous huddled mass they dared not look at.
Jessica pressed herself against the wall and looked up at the tiny grating. It admitted fresh air but allowed nothing out. She had shouted, and no one had answered. At intervals she raised her head and shouted again; and still there was no reply, no help.
There were some substantial-looking implements on the bench. She had studied them all and conceived splendidly dramatic plans for escape — plans involving shorting the power supply, setting the house on fire and banking on the fire brigade arriving on time, or using a screwdriver on the door, getting the lock away, somehow removing the hinges. It would all have looked fine in a film and it was all impracticable.
Every now and then her thwarted energy burst out in a rage of accusation.
‘You wanted something done … but you didn’t want to hear how it was carried out, did you? You just didn’t want to know. And now you know.’
Then they both looked at the horror in the corner and shivered and looked away. They had seen it all too clearly this morning.
It seemed a lifetime since that ring at her doorbell. She had opened the door to find David there. He was smiling. He was unable to stop smiling: triumph was written all over his face. He kissed her and then slapped her lightly several times on the shoulder — the slap he might have given an old school friend who would understand that it meant something big, something special, something almost too big to be told.
‘David.’
She stood back to let him in but he still stood outside.
He said: ‘I hoped you’d be in. I’d like you to come down and spend the rest of the day with us. And stay the night. We can drive in early tomorrow morning and report for duty. Coming?’ He was already catching her arm and drawing her boisterously out on to the landing, where the iron-framed lift waited.
‘But … ’ She floundered. She had no excuse for not going with him, but no immediate reason for going. ‘I’m not ready.’
‘Aren’t you?’ He laughed and walked past her, and saw her bag already packed. ‘You can soon get ready.’
‘Why didn’t you call me first?’
He hesitated. A question formed in her mind — the silence on the telephone, the gentle replacing of the receiver — but before she could utter it he said: ‘Here’s your case. On the way to the hotel? But you don’t want to stay in that dismal dump. We’ll be there long enough, goodness knows. Or will we? Depends on tomorrow morning.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I had to drive into town. I’ve got the car here. We can be home in thirty minutes, or thereabouts. Mother’d love to see you.’
She tried to argue and realised that he was not listening. She thought about Dampier and about the messages that might reach the hotel. They would try to get in touch with her. They would be cross if she wasn’t there, even if they had nothing to report. It was her job: she was a sponge, a shock-absorber, a buffer, a soothing murmur, producing comforting platitudes to order.
‘I ought to go to the hotel,’ she said. ‘A lot of them will be checking in tonight.’
‘Let them.’ David picked up her bag and walked out. She found that she was following him. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘you may not be working for Intersyn that much longer.’
He was so confident that she was incapable of argument. It was all too soon — too soon after Andrew, too soon to think of anything or of anybody else — but his exuberance was infectious. She slammed the door behind her and followed him downstairs and out to his car.
He put her case on the back seat and opened the front door for her with a flourish.
They went out of London fast. He drove as he had certainly not driven on that previous occasion when they toured decorously around the Maidenhead area. He was humming to himself, and he used the car as a partner in a dance.
Jessica said: ‘David … we don’t want to get killed. At least, I don’t.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Not before tomorrow morning. Not before I’ve told them.’
‘Told them what?’
He laughed. She looked at him and he turned to look full at her. The car jolted. He glanced back at the road as though daring it to offer any opposition. Headlights were just being switched on in the misty twilight. The uncertain light cast strange shadows down David’s face. In a moment of brightness J
essica realised how red and tired his eyes were. Her throat was dry as she said:
‘You’ve driven a long way today.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You didn’t drive in from Maidenhead to pick me up. You … you’ve been up to Belby. David — it was you.’
‘Tomorrow morning you must watch their faces,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to concentrate on all of them when I break the news. You must tell me later how they took it.’ They went round a roundabout with a faint wail of tyres. ‘Mother will be so pleased. I wanted you to be there when I told her. I want you both to be in on it. Things are going to be so different from now on.’
‘What did you find?’ she demanded. ‘And how did you know where to look?’
He shook his head as though brushing off an importunate child.
‘Later,’ he said. ‘Later, when I can tell you both.’
She wanted to tell him to stop. She wanted to get out and discuss things calmly and clear her head and think things out calmly. But he drove on. He did not speak again until they were in the house.
Mrs Marsh kissed him and looked past him at Jessica, questioning her right to be here.
‘You must be worn out, Davy. Whatever have you been up to all this time?’
‘I rang you — ’
‘Made no sense to me. No sense at all. Now come on, let me take your coat. You go right in and sit down.’
She plucked at his coat sleeves. Her voice was querulous and her eyes adoring.
David said: ‘I’ve done it.’
‘Whatever that may be, I expect it’ll wait until we all sit down.’
‘I’ve proved it. I’ve got Father’s notebook.’
Mrs Marsh’s shoulders had bowed with the weight of the coat. Now she stood leaning forward, stooped, stricken.
Jessica moved forward to help her with the coat. Mrs Marsh straightened up, hung the coat on a hook, and turned back to her son.
‘I knew you’d find out someday, somehow,’ she said.
The two of them went into the sitting room. Jessica followed, feeling that she was trespassing. She would not have been surprised if they had bowed to the picture of Mr Marsh.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Marsh.
The two women sat down. David stood before the mantelpiece with his back to his father. He said:
‘When we left Belby I came down with the others, and then I came home.’ His mother nodded at Jessica to intimate that this preamble was for her benefit. ‘Then I got the car out and drove back to Belby on Saturday. I found all the development files of the project my father was working on. His notebook was there. And there are things on the final pages that they’ll have difficulty in explaining away. I don’t understand the formulae — they’re far ahead of anything I’ve ever touched — but I expect some good Intersyn men will understand them. Understand them too well, I fancy!’
Mrs Marsh nodded proudly.
Jessica said: ‘David, don’t you realise what you’ve done?’
‘I’ve reclaimed what belongs to us.’
‘You’ve broken into Intersyn property, and you’ve stolen from confidential files.’
‘I was sure you didn’t understand my boy,’ said Mrs Marsh. ‘Right from the start I was sure of it.’
‘Mother — ’
‘What does she know about it? What does she know of the years we’ve waited, the years we’ve longed to show up the truth?’
‘It’s all right, Jess,’ said David gently. ‘It’s quite a day for us. You do understand that, don’t you? And I know how you feel about breaking in and stealing. But do you think I wanted to do things that way? It’s just that there was no other way of finding out. They weren’t going to hand over the truth of their own free will.’
‘Who stole things in the first place, anyway?’ Mrs Marsh demanded fiercely. ‘Who stole Mr Marsh’s ideas, his years of work, his notebook — everything?’
‘His notebook.’ David echoed the words. Then he went out of the room and they heard him open the back door and go out. Mrs Marsh stared at Jessica in silent hostility.
When David returned he held out a small black notebook. His mother touched it with the tips of her fingers then shook her head reverently.
‘I wouldn’t understand a thing.’
David held the book out to Jessica. She opened it. The figures, all written in a neat, almost constricted style, meant nothing to her. She felt that the writing deteriorated towards the end of the book: some lines were scrawled halfway down a page and then tilted in a drunken swoop; but this must be where excitement had gripped Mr Marsh, when he couldn’t get the final revelations down fast enough.
David said: ‘Don’t worry, Jess. Once they know that this is in my possession they won’t be too keen to lay any charges against me. You’ll see.’
Then he sat down, put his head back, and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. His mother at once began to fuss over him. He had done too much, he must go to bed at once — all that dashing about, he ought to have known better, she didn’t know what he’d get up to next.
But when he opened his eyes again and smiled at her, she nodded a secret, conspiratorial nod at him. ‘After all this time,’ she whispered. ‘After all this time. But I knew. you’d do it, son.’
Jessica was sorry she had come. David had said that he wanted her to share in it, but the triumph was his and his mother’s. She was excluded. She had all the uneasy tremors of an accessory after the fact without sharing in any of the profits. Then David put out his arm and drew her closer, forcing his mother to accept her as one of the group, as part of the future.
They went to bed early. Jessica lay awake for some time wondering if David would come into the small spare room. But he would be saving his energy for tomorrow; and probably, too, he would feel that it was blasphemous to make love to her on this night, in his mother’s house, in a house haunted by his dead father.
In the morning they were up early. Mrs Marsh insisted that David should have a good breakfast. She wanted him to be strong enough to deal with all that was going to happen today. When she kissed him goodbye it was a long, affectionate leave-taking. Her gallant son was riding out to clear his father’s name.
Jessica carried her case round to the back of the car. She snapped open the lid of the boot.
‘Not in there!’ yelled David suddenly.
The boot was full. Dampier’s body had been squashed into the confined space. His head was half concealed by one arm, but enough was visible to show that the face had been hideously scarred by acid burns and knife or chisel wounds. There were long tears in his jacket and trousers, the edges unevenly stuck together by dried blood.
‘Oh,’ said David close behind her. ‘Oh, dear.’ He spoke with a touch of gentle reproach. Behind him his mother wailed — a soft, animal cry — and sagged against the door. David leaned past Jessica and slammed down the lid of the boot. Then he took her arm, and she had no strength in her to fight free. ‘You weren’t meant to see that,’ he said, turning her with surprising speed and vigour towards the door and back into the house.
*
Detective Inspector Freeman and his sergeant suggested courteously that the best way to deal with the matter was to interview Course members one by one, and that it would be advisable for the interviewed men not to return to the classroom afterwards. Detective Inspector Freeman was very polite about this but very firm.
Partridge thought the procedure would now be unnecessary. He felt that the two policemen should listen to what this young gentleman here had to say first. They had arrived just in time.
Freeman pointed out that the young man ought to be warned before making any statement.
‘Mr Marsh is merely addressing his colleagues on the Course,’ said Partridge. ‘You are merely here as guests. I am sure you will discover a lot more that way, and save yourselves a lot of time. And at least you can’t complain of lack of witnesses. Whatever Mr Marsh may say, he will have difficulty in retracting it afterwards.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Partridge said: ‘Go on, Mr Marsh.’
David Marsh looked much more at ease than many official lecturers on this Course had done. One would have said that he understood his subject perfectly and was skilled at putting it across.
He told them what had happened. Leaving Belby, going back to Belby, getting in through a side gate, going into the records office at a time when he knew the night duty staff would be in another part of the plant, opening the files with the spare key that was always kept in a certain desk drawer, finding the development files, and above all finding his father’s notebook.
He raised his right hand with the notebook in it. There was an oath-taking significance in the gesture.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Here’s the truth. It’s all written down here, in this book. You’ll see who started the whole project. And you’ll see who finished it off. Intersyn’s money — its prosperity — all the profits that have rolled in over the last few years … the beginning is here.’ He put the notebook down on the desk in front of a man with heavily black-rimmed glasses. ‘Here. This is your line of country. Read those last few pages and tell me what they mean. Tell me … tell everybody.’
The man gulped and opened the book.
‘Right at the end,’ said David Marsh. ‘Tell the members of this Course what those formulae mean.’
There was a silence, broken only by the rustle of pages being turned over. The detective inspector and his sergeant, sitting stiffly on chairs at the side of the room, leaned forward as though ready to spring. But nobody was trying to escape; nobody was running away.
Partridge said: ‘You do realise, of course — ’
‘Be quiet,’ said David. ‘Unless you’re afraid to let everyone else hear the truth, that is.’
Partridge said to the detective inspector: ‘This man is mad. I hope you’ll be able to cope with him.’
‘We’ll manage, sir.’
‘Mad?’ said David Marsh. ‘Read out what’s on those last few pages. Tell them!’
The unhappy man in the front row took off his glasses and breathed on them, then rubbed them with a scrap of papery cloth taken from a small packet. He looked again at the last page, but only briefly, and then shook his head. He said: ‘It’s all gibberish. It doesn’t mean a thing.’
