by HRF Keating
‘Must be bright as well as nice, if she has a go at the Guardian crossword on a Saturday.’
‘Yes, she is bright. Certainly bright enough to foist off a nosy detective superintendent wanting to talk to a patient at the Masterton.’
John’s eyebrows rose.
‘The Masterton Clinic, all those pop singers and drink-problem footballers? What were you doing there? If it isn’t a secret.’
‘No, not secret at all. I was there to talk, if I could, to Robert Roughouse. At dawn yesterday he was taken away from St Ozzie’s, where he was being perfectly well looked after, by some of his rich friends. Besides needing to talk to him, I want to know exactly why they did that.’
‘I’m not surprised you do. Moved to the Masterton at dawn? I’d certainly want some sort of explanation for that.’
‘And, when I asked for one there, I was simply not given it. But I’ve a notion that, through Tonelle, I could perhaps find out more. If I’m useful to her, she may be useful to me. So, Up with a tent …’
‘All right, tell her that eleven across was pitchblende.’
‘Pitchblende? That’s the answer? How on earth did you make that out?’
‘Simple enough.’
‘OK, Mr Clever, unless you explain I’ll hand over my apron and you’ll cook supper.’
‘Answer coming straightaway then. What do you do when you put up a tent?’
‘Ah, I see it. Pretty easy really. You pitch it. Half of pitchblende accounted for.’
‘Right. Then, if you’ve pitched a tent for not quite a blonde, what comes into your mind next?’
‘Nothing. So what came into your mind, if it wasn’t a lascivious thought?’
‘Heaven forbid. No, this is crossword business, we’re playing by the unwritten rules. Crosswords are games. And if you’re playing a game you need rules as to how it’s to be played, even if they’re not all actually formulated. They make the game possible, and, if they’re broken, what you get is chaos. And chaos is something to be avoided in this world whenever it can be. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘So never knock unwritten rules, however much breaching them is, by all the laws known to the world as old Trollope says, something you can do if you want to.’
‘OK, OK. But that still leaves me wanting to know how Pitchblende comes to be that answer.’
‘Right. According to the rules of crossword solving —’
‘Unwritten.’
‘Yes, unwritten but convenient. OK, an expression like not quite in a clue may mean you have to alter in some way the word or words following.’
‘Ah, wait. Yes, I sort of get it. Not blonde but blende. Perhaps I will take up crosswords after all.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t. Not unless you can explain how that particular change had to be made. After all, you already knew the final answer.’
Harriet put her tongue out at him.
‘No, damn it, tell me. I’m not going to waste half the evening fiddling about with a crossword. I’ve got to go and cook.’
‘Your choice. No one ever says you have to do a crossword.’ A little too deliberately, John took up the book he had been reading.
‘All right,’ Harriet said. ‘That clue kept young Tonelle awake half the night. So, for her sake, tell me please.’
John smiled. Rather too tolerantly, she thought.
‘East not zero, ‘ he said. ‘Not too difficult. In place of zero, i.e. an O, put East, i.e. —’
‘No, I’ve got it. E for east, and it goes from blonde to blende.’
‘All right. But, remember, the setter is bound by the infrangible rules to indicate as well what the final answer is, though sometimes of course that rule is franged.’
‘Right, the bit tagged on at the end. Something about a dug-out. Not that I can see how that can possibly mean pitchblende. And what is pitchblende anyhow?’
‘One answer to both questions. Pitchblende, so-called because from its curious lustre it resembles pitch, is a mineral, a source of uranium among other things. And it has to be dug out of the earth, though I’m not altogether sure that making dug-out one word was strictly according to the rules, but —’
‘Hey, you knew that about pitchblende? Does someone have to know an obscure fact like that before they can complete a wretched crossword? No wonder it foxed little Tonelle — not so little actually, rather on the buxom side.’
‘Well, I didn’t know exactly what the stuff was myself till I looked it up.’
‘Cheat.’
‘No, I looked it up only after I’d finished the puzzle. Just to satisfy my curiosity.’
‘OK. You win: I’m cooking. But, when I see my friend Tonelle again, I’ll have a present for her.’
‘And, when you give it to her, you think you’ll start to get somewhere? I’ve the impression you’re fully engaged in this investigation.’
‘I am. By God, I am.’
‘So thoughts of resignation no longer with you?’
‘They may not be, or they may be. Depends whether the case gets me a result, or not. The whole business seems to be wrapped in layer on layer of things that I suspect are relevant but can’t at all see why or how. It’s infuriating. At last, after months of piddling jobs, I manage to get myself one worth having, and —’
‘Has it ever struck you,’ John broke in, ‘that the powers-that-be might feel reluctant to task you with anything really onerous after …’
‘After me having one of my sons killed by a terrorist bomb. Say it.’
‘Well, I do say it. We’ve had an agreement between ourselves — another unwritten one — not to bring up Graham’s death unless it’s inescapable. I manage to stick to it, though often enough I want to break down and have a good weep. But I thought now this was a moment to —’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. I must bring myself to be able to talk about it. And so far I just haven’t been able to, not in any meaningful sense.’
‘I know. If only from the way you still carry about, somewhere deep in the mysteries of a woman’s handbag, that toy mobile of Graham’s.’
‘You know about that?’
‘Well, yes. I do keep an eye on you.’
‘All right, and I suppose I know that’s what you’ve been doing. But, however ridiculous that thing looks, it does work, you know. All the same, do you really think I should put it away, go back to my old one?’
‘Only if you want to.’
For a long moment she thought.
‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t want to, silly though I am about it. But I don’t. And, what’s more, I don’t think cherishing it the way I do makes me in any way unfit to conduct a major investigation. As some people, not you of course, think that I am.’
‘Well, if some people has been thinking that, he seems to have given up the idea now. You could hardly have been tasked with a more important investigation than the attempted murder of Robert Roughouse, ex-MP, party leader.’
‘I had to insist on having it, though. And I got it. But what if that was only in the belief that I’d fail, and the stiff-necked idiot could get rid of me?’
John gave her a carefully judged smile.
‘Don’t fail then,’ he said.
Chapter Nine
The moment Harriet entered her office next morning she decided — no trusting Mrs Fishlock’s word — it was time to ring the Masterton again in case she had not been told that Robert Roughouse was now fit enough to talk.
Or … or, she thought, can it be he’s no longer alive?
She picked up her phone.
One minute later she knew she was not going to find out for some time to come whether Roughouse himself had any idea why that purple egg had been shot at him. ‘Mr Roughouse is showing some more hopeful signs. But he is still far from being fit to hold conversations. In fact, he is not able to talk at all.’
Cold dragon’s breath.
Glum in the face of the blank negative, she had to remind herself that there was still Matthew Jess
op to pursue. What reason could he have had to say to Charity that she should not come up here to Birchester?
Was he just, in fact, somewhat disapproving of the affair between his well-padded and well-educated friend — the Zeal School, extraordinary place — and an athlete from heaven knows what background in Kenya? Perhaps he hoped Robert’s stay in the clinic, which might be a long one even if he soon regained consciousness, would gradually make the love affair fade away. All right, that could be it. But it’s not somehow altogether likely.
She picked up her phone, and this time succeeded in reaching Jessop in person. He had, he explained without fuss, left for a country location as soon as he had seen her go yesterday. No point, she thought, in questioning him by phone, unable to see his face let alone any tics in his hands or minute shiftings of his feet. But, when she asked if she could come to talk to him today there was a distinctly long silence.
‘Well, that’s impossible,’ he said at last, sounding an edge more hostile than when they had been talking face-to-face. ‘No. No, you see, I shall be down in the country again. We’re doing the most important exterior sequence in the film. And — this is it — according to the forecast the weather’s going to hold over all the weekend. We’ve got to seize the chance.’
‘I could make it in the early evening,’ Harriet tried.
‘No. No, you see, I shan’t be back till late. The pack-up’s always a long business after a day in the mud.’ A cough of a laugh and a burst of rapid chatter. ‘Still, better mud than the jagged rocks and unutterably steep hillsides when I filmed Rob’s Georgia trek. Georgia and beyond, wilder and wilder.’
What’s wrong with the man, Harriet asked herself. Why is he blathering out all these excuses? And the weather’s fine. He won’t have had a day in the mud. Has he got something to hide then? Even if it’s only something, perhaps embarrassing, he hopes a little evasiveness will save him from having to mention? Well, he’s not going to get away with that.
‘I have other inquiries I have to make in London,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ll call you again.’
She sat and considered, swinging to and fro in her deep-padded desk chair. Wasn’t there, when you came down to it, something a bit curious, more than a bit curious, about all that flurry of excuses? Yes, I think —
The phone at her elbow rang into life.
It was Charity. And from the moment she identified herself, it was plain she was in distress.
‘Calm down, love. Calm down. Take a deep breath. Then tell me what’s the matter.’
Down the line, a choked sob, a silence. Then at last words that could be made out.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Yes, got to pull myself together. It’s not very terrible, really. It’s just …’
‘Just what, Charity? Tell me.’
‘I — I — I’ve had someone on my entry-phone. A man. Didn’t recognise who. But classy voice. Yeah, classy.’
‘And he said what?’
‘He — Soon as I answered, he just said Do not go and see Robert Roughouse. Understand. You are not to go. If you do, it’s likely to be the last thing you ever do. That was it. I’ve told you it exactly. It was only a minute or two ago. Harriet, who was he? Why did he say that? Does he mean it? Will — Will he really kill me, have me killed, if I go near the Masterton? Harriet, what’s happening? What is it?’
What is it indeed? First Jessop simply saying Charity should not come up here to see her Rob, and now a plain threat — could it be from the man in that smart yellow summer suit? — aimed at keeping her well away.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I absolutely see why you’re upset. But, listen. First of all, it may be just some silly practical joke. You said it was a classy voice. Do any of Rob’s friends go in for that sort of thing, thoughtless practical jokes? It wasn’t Matthew Jessop, was it? He’s said once already you shouldn’t go to see Rob. And he never really explained why. Isn’t that right?’
‘No, it wasn’t Matthew’s voice at all. I’d recognise that. All right, same sort of classiness. But, no, this was quite different. I don’t know, sort of harsh, heavier than Matthew.’
‘But it could be one of Rob’s other friends? It’s something people like that, those Zealots, might think was somehow funny.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. The voice sounded so … But, yes. Yes, I suppose it could have been. Just.’
‘OK. Can we leave it at that? But, all the same, if I were you, I wouldn’t go out without taking very good care. Look about you all the time, if you have to go anywhere, anywhere at all, especially after dark. Or always go with someone, someone you know. And, Charity, I think for the time being you actually shouldn’t attempt to come up here. Robert’s still unconscious, I called the Masterton barely twenty minutes ago. So you don’t absolutely need to come. OK?’
‘Yes. Yes, suppose so. But I just want to see Rob again, even if he can’t speak or anything.’
‘I know. I understand. But take my advice. Stay where you are, be careful if you have to go out. I doubt if there’s any real danger, after all a threat on your entry-phone doesn’t sound too serious. And, listen, the moment I hear that Robert’s regained consciousness I shall have to go to see him, and I’ll pass on the news straightaway. OK?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’
She put the phone down, wondering whether she had said enough to reassure Charity and whether it might be a good thing to call her nearest PS — probably the big one at Paddington Green — and suggest Daley Thompson House merits special attention. But almost at once the phone rang again.
‘Superintendent Martens? This is Mrs Fishlock.’
She ringing me again? Now? What is this? What — My God, is Roughouse dead? It can’t be. But it might be. Yes. Oh, God.
‘Mrs Fishlock, you’ve got news for me?’
‘I have. Mr Roughouse has fully recovered consciousness.’
Thank God, thank God. So now I may be …?
‘That’s wonderful, Mrs Fishlock. Can I see him?’
‘The medical staff have informed me that, now he’s awake from the anaesthetic, they can say he has come very well through the minor operation on his neck.’
On his neck? It was an operation on his head earlier on. How obstructive can you get, Mrs Fishlock?
But she was still talking.
‘The medical staff consider Mr Roughouse is able now to answer questions, provided they are not in any way aggressive.’ Aggressive? For heaven’s sake, is the wretched she-dragon determined to find fault with Greater Birchester Police?
‘I don’t see there should be any need to be aggressive, Mrs Fishlock. No need at all. I simply need to learn if Mr Roughouse has any idea what might be behind the attempt on his life.’
‘Very well. Would tomorrow morning at, say, ten o’clock suit you?’
Still being difficult, are we? Want to make it clear no one outranks the Masterton?
‘No, Mrs Fishlock, it would not suit me.’ Then she decided to soften that, if with a plain lie. ‘Unfortunately I have an important interview to conduct in London tomorrow.’
‘Oh. In that case shall we say in an hour’s time?’
‘That would suit me very well.’
She called Charity again straightaway.
‘Oh, oh, that’s marvellous. Marvellous. Oh, I’m so glad. So happy. Look, I know you said Stay away, but can’t I come up now? Isn’t it all right?’
‘No. No, I’m sorry but it’s still Play safe. Whoever it was on your entry-phone may quite likely still be somewhere nearby, perhaps sitting in those gardens opposite, waiting to see what your reaction to their message is. No, stay at the end of the phone, and when I’ve seen Rob myself — I should be finished easily within the next two hours — then I’ll give you a bell and tell you how he is. After that we can discuss you coming up here. OK?’
‘OK. I suppose.’
*
Mrs Fishlock herself led Harriet to Roughouse’s room. A discreet tap on its door, just above a brass holder with a n
eatly written card giving his name, and, as soon as a solidly competent nurse appeared, the somewhat subdued dragon retreated to her lair.
Harriet took a quick stride inside.
There in the middle of a large hospital bed, all protective metal bars and metallic lifting apparatus, lay the man she had knelt beside in the dark outside Gralethorpe’s town hall, the odour of his blood sharp in her nostrils. The man she had watched, a picture of forcefulness and courage, defying the hostility of the crowd below.
But now all that she could see of him beneath a swathe of bandages was the upper part of his face, grey as a sheet of long-discarded paper. Drained, washed-out.
She went over — the bed seemed so hygienically clean that it had an odour of its own — and sat down on the mesh steel chair beside it.
Now she saw that two eyes were staring upwards, glinting, for all their surrounding turgid bloodshot streaks, with lapis lazuli points of life.
A glance at the watchful nurse standing at the bed’s foot.
‘It’s all right to talk?’
‘Yes, it is, Doctor said. But five minutes and no more.’
Harriet bent towards the drained face and spoke quietly but clearly as she could.
‘Mr Roughouse, I am Detective Superintendent Martens, Greater Birchester Police. I’ve come to ask just a few questions about what happened to you in Gralethorpe. Have you been told that someone, someone unknown, projected a small grenade at you from the chapel opposite? You know that happened?’
‘Yeh.’
The word hardly more than an articulated sigh. The bloodshot eyes unmoving, mired in fatigue.
‘So, what I have to ask you now is: do you know why anyone, anyone at all, should have done that?’
The head on the starched-white pillow stirred from side to side. As if the man within was in the throes of some impossible decision.
But from the almost colourless lips there came not even the smallest murmur.
‘Mr Roughouse?’
Still no answer.
‘Mr Roughouse, can you tell me why someone wanted to kill you?’
