He closed the door firmly. There was a lock with a key in it and a solid-looking bolt. He turned the key and slid the bolt home.
Now he felt able though still not keen to go upstairs.
He didn’t know if he was relieved or not when he explored the lavatory cistern and found it empty. He saw Ursell’s sceptical face when he came back empty-handed. Maybe he ought to take something to prove he’d been here, but what? A bar of soap? A toothbrush? What would they prove? It would have to be something a lot more personal, something that would prove he’d definitely been inside the house …
Are you crazy? he heard the distant voice of common sense (which in Luton he called Whitey) demand. You want to present a cop with evidence you’ve done a burglary?
It was bad enough Ursell having him by the short and curlies over Dildo without giving the guy the wherewithal to bang him up if he felt like it.
Best thing to do was rely on his honest face. If the DI didn’t believe him, tough.
But it seemed a good move to give him the fullest report possible, to which end Joe set out in search of other cisterns to check.
There were two more lavatories upstairs. Seemed a bit excessive, specially in view of the minimalist diet the Lewises seemed to exist on. Neither of them contained anything more suspicious than a leaky ballcock.
His search for them took him into the bedrooms. Wain’s he’d seen briefly already, and a second look confirmed the impression of confusion just this side of squalor. Probably his mam snuck in when he was away at college and cleaned up anything likely to actually decay. By contrast, what looked like the master bedroom was like a barrack room before an inspection. And a glance in the wardrobe revealed that it was indeed the master bedroom. Men’s clothes only. In fact, it was a master floor, as he couldn’t find any sign of female residence. Then he opened a door which revealed a further flight of stairs, narrower than those from the main hallway. Probably they’d led up to the servants’ quarters in the good ol’ days. Where else should he expect to find that pale self-effacing woman?
He began to climb, then stopped. Was that a noise he’d heard or just something his nervous stomach had sent echoing up to his nervous ears? It certainly came from below, not above. Carefully he retraced his steps and peered over the landing balustrade.
Nothing to see, or to hear. And out of the landing window no other vehicle stood in front of the house but the dear old Morris, calling to him like a chapel bell to an old-time villain in search of sanctuary.
Finish the job, he told himself sternly, and turned back to the stairs.
He quickly established that this was indeed where the lady of the house slept. He felt a pang of indignation on her behalf, though, to be fair, she did have two smallish rooms to herself, one for sleeping in, the other a dressing room. Plus a fairly Spartan bathroom with another pill-free cistern.
Poking into a woman’s rooms made him feel much uneasier than the men’s so he got out of there quick. It took him a few more minutes to establish that the other rooms up there were empty except for dust and the odd tea-chest. There was a trap in one of them obviously leading to the attic but even if he’d had a ladder, he didn’t fancy going up there. Leave that to them as had a warrant.
A noise again. This time not so frightening, as it was outside and, to his mechanically fine-tuned ear, identifiable. Sounded like a 250cc bike engine. Important thing was, it was receding. He peered though the small cobwebby window and saw nothing but cobwebs. A small spider ran down a silken ladder and began to dress the corpse of a large fly. It felt like time to go.
He headed downstairs, light-hearted (and footed) with relief that he was going to get out of here unscathed and leaving no trace of his passage.
Except, he recalled in the entrance hall, the cellar door. Would someone recall they’d left it open and wonder how it came to be locked? Probably not. But, as Endo Venera said, there’s guys breaking big rocks ‘cos they couldn’t be bothered looking after small details.
He went into the kitchen.
And stopped dead.
The bolt he’d slid home was now slid back and the door was once more ajar.
Someone had been in here while he was gumshoeing around upstairs and gone down into the cellar.
Question was, were they still down there?
Instinct said, run!
But man did not live by instinct alone otherwise he wouldn’t have got the vote.
No, sometimes a choice had to be made based on the greatest good of the greatest number. The greatest number in this case was one, himself. And his greatest good was knowing what the shoot was going on here.
At least, he thought that that was his greatest good, but he was open to argument.
None came. He went to the door and pulled it full open. It moved easily on well-oiled hinges. If there was someone down there, he didn’t want to surprise them so he made a lot of noise with his feet and coughed loudly, not difficult considering the still rough state of his throat.
Then he advanced to the head of the stairs.
If there was someone down there, they were in the dark. It was like looking down the devil’s throat. He needed a torch, or a box of matches.
Or you could try that light switch on the wall, said an exasperated inner voice.
He tried the light switch on the wall. And felt like the Almighty on Day One.
This was very different from what he’d feared. No dusty low-watt bulb this, swinging on a frayed flex to illuminate a skeleton in a rocking chair, but a day-bright striplight, illuminating fresh white walls, a quarry-tiled floor, and a plastered ceiling high enough for even a tall man to walk beneath without stooping.
It wasn’t a huge cellar; in fact, it was rather smaller than Joe expected. But its space was remarkably uncluttered. Same tidy mind at work here as was evidenced in the master bedroom, Joe guessed.
At one end there was a workbench with a vice and a tool rack on the wall behind it, while the wall at the other end was totally occupied by a wine rack.
There was nowhere Joe could see that a man could hide, so he went down the steps.
On the workbench he found a few shards of what looked like marble and he recalled Lewis saying that he made a hobby out of repairing antiques. Man of many talents. Also a man with a taste for better wine than his wife provided food to wash down with.
Not that Joe knew a lot about wine, but this stuff just had that look about it. Older the dearer was the rule, he recalled. He took hold of the neck of a bottle and pulled it out to check the date. At least he tried. It seemed firmly wedged. He gave it a good tug.
And the whole rack came moving towards him.
For a horrified moment, he thought he’d pulled the whole caboodle over and any second now he was going to be ankle deep in broken glass and pricey plonk.
Then he realized with mingled relief and puzzlement that rather than falling towards him, the rack had swung outwards, like a door. He pulled on the bottle neck again and the movement resumed. Stooping down, he saw that the whole frame rested on scarcely visible rubber castors which ran silently, leaving no trace on the quarry tiles. One more pull and there was enough space for him to see what lay behind.
He’d been right to feel the cellar was smaller than it ought to be. Behind the rack was another small room containing a tall metal locker and a padded office chair in front of a triple bank of television screens.
He stepped inside and sat down.
There was a control panel. He studied it for a moment then pressed a switch. The circuits of the human mind might be a constant puzzle to him, but Wilco Engineering had got a fingerhold on the electronics age before it lost its grip and tumbled into the abyss of lost dreams.
Green lights appeared. There were several numbered switches. He clicked One. A screen came to life and he smiled with satisfaction as he recognized the entrance hall to Branddreth College. This was, as he’d guessed, another terminal for the college CCTV security system. Lewis was not a man to put all his trust
in the likes of Dai Williams.
He flicked idly around. Empty rooms. Almost as dull as daytime network telly. And then a figure appeared in one of the shots. It was Ella Williams walking along a corridor, with what looked like a pair of pristine white sheets folded over her arm. Heading where? To the sickbay, he guessed. Who else could merit having their sheets changed for such a short stay? Nice lady, he thought appreciatively. That Dai didn’t know how lucky he was.
He flicked another switch and by the lucky chance which compensated for so many of his other deficiencies he saw he’d actually got himself a view of the sickbay. He realized to his shame that he hadn’t even bothered to leave the bed looking tidy. At least he couldn’t see any dirty underclothes lying around.
Then shame faded as something else caught his eye. The door was open and behind it he could see something … the edge of something … it moved … oh Lord, there was someone there … someone lurking with Ella Williams getting ever closer.
He opened his mouth to yell, closed it as he realized the futility of the sound, and watched in horror as the woman stepped inside.
The ambusher was out in a flash. He had a weapon in his hands … some sort of club … but he didn’t need it, not yet, as he threw his arms around the woman from behind and grappled her to the bed.
Joe pushed himself up out of the chair. He had to get from the Lady House to the college. How long would it take? Three, four, five minutes …? At least! Quick enough to save her from the worst … maybe … maybe not …
For the worst seemed closer than he would have expected. The woman was on her back on the bed, her attacker was pulling her clothes off her, she was arching her back to resist him.
Or was it to help him …?
For now he was pushing himself away from her to enable him to pull off his own clothes. And she was reaching up to help him. Dear heaven, it was incredible how quickly two fully clothed human beings could render themselves completely naked if the incentive was right!
And now he identified two things. One was the ‘attacker’. Long John Dawe, the jovial landlord of the Goat and Axle. No wonder he was so jovial!
The other was the club-like ‘weapon’ he’d been wielding which now lay disregarded on the pillow.
It was a bottle of champagne.
What, he wondered, were they celebrating?
And what could champagne add to what they were presently doing to celebrate it?
Everyday country folk they might be, but there was clearly little the sophisticates of downtown Luton could teach them about the fine art of making love.
Shoot, Sixsmith, you are starting to enjoy this! thought Joe with a sudden inrush of shame. Or was it envy?
Whatever, time to switch off in every sense.
He pressed the off switch to blank out the disturbing image. Not just the sex that disturbed him though … something else … but it was the tangle of limbs whose imprint he wanted to smudge from his mind. He sent his gaze wandering round the room in search of something to replace it.
Nothing much else to look at. Except the metal storage cabinet.
This was top gear, bolted firmly to the wall. Unremovable without a lot of noise and effort and impregnable without a lot more expertise or explosive than your average break-in artist had.
Except that it was unlocked.
What was it that Lewis wanted such an expensive item of equipment for? And having acquired it, why didn’t he keep it locked?
Probably because it was empty, he answered himself.
He opened the door.
And wished he hadn’t.
Looking up at him was the head of a young boy, blue eyes wide open, red lips pursed in what looked like a smile but had to be the rictus of death.
He might have shrieked out loud, but his throat had tightened as he took a staggering step backwards.
Only to find his progress impeded by something hard and metallic thrusting into the back of his head with a force that brought tears to his eyes.
He managed to twist round and saw mistily that it was the business end of an up-and-over shotgun.
Presumably there was someone at the other end, but he couldn’t make out that far.
Now the barrels were under his chin, pushing upwards. In fact, they were probably the only thing holding him up.
And all he could think of as he teetered on the edge of eternity was that at last he was going to find the answer to the Great Philosophical Question which Endo Venera poses in the final reflective chapter of his book –
Did a stiff hear the bang of the gun that killed him?
Chapter 15
Joe sat in the deepest armchair in the Lady House lounge, staring fixedly at the shotgun even though it was now leaning up against the wall, and drank great gobfuls of whisky.
No rubbing whisky this, unimportant guests for the use of, but the real Macallan, old enough to be someone’s father.
Leon Lewis was too well brought up to say it, but Joe guessed this was the first time he’d realized that black men too can go pale with terror.
As well as the whisky, this revelation had brought another plus, Joe’s terror for some reason inclining Lewis to believe his pleas of innocence. Why this should be Joe couldn’t understand. Some of the most nervous characters he’d ever met were crooks. Dangerous crooks too, their jangling nerves urging them to get their retaliation in first. But he wasn’t complaining, not with the High Master listening sympathetically to how he’d called round to have a chat with Owain, found the front door open, got worried when no one answered his call, entered to look around in case anyone was in trouble, found the cellar door open (a slight upping of the eyebrows at this), descended, found the wine rack pulled back and the cabinet open (another eyebrow quiver) ‘… and I’d just been frightened half out of my wits by seeing that chopped-off head when you scared me out of the other half with that scattergun.’
Lewis murmured, ‘Sorry,’ and looked down at the head which was resting in his lap.
It was made out of marble and had been removed not from a child but the cherub at the front door, though Lewis had had to bring it up from the cellar to convince him.
‘So what’s it doing in that cabinet?’ demanded Joe, remembered shock making him aggressive.
Lewis smiled placatingly.
‘My hobby, Mr Sixsmith, is restoring antiques. Didn’t I mention it last night? You probably noticed my workbench in the cellar.’
Sounded reasonable, thought Joe.
‘Why’s it coloured?’ he asked, looking with curiosity at the head whose blue eyes and bright red lips still made him feel queasy.
‘Ancient Greek statuary usually was coloured. Of course, by the time it reaches us, after centuries of exposure to the air, or sometimes even to sea water, the original pigment has long vanished. But we do have written descriptions which suggest that the colouring erred as you might expect on the side of Mediterranean primary exuberance rather than Nordic pastel restraint. The past may be another country, but true antiquarianism stamps its own passport. Re-creation has always been the better part of recreation, as ‘twere.’
He’d lost Joe some way before the as ‘twere, but he didn’t mind. Try as he might, he found it hard to lie, and even harder to lie well. Endo Venera had no good advice here. He seemed to assume that anyone getting into the PI business would have a natural talent to deceive. Joe found it easier to practise evasion than deceit. But he recognized deceptiveness in others and he was getting a feeling that Lewis had been as taken aback to find the cupid’s head as himself.
More hard stuff to set aside for softening. Main thing was the High Master seemed inclined to believe his story. But there were still questions that needed answering, especially if, as seemed highly likely, DI Ursell was going to be asking them.
‘So nothing was stolen then?’ he said.
Lewis fixed him with a gaze which if not inscrutable certainly gave Joe some difficulty in scruting.
‘Not so far as I can see,’ he said. ‘
What makes you think something might have been?’
‘Well, just the doors being open and everything,’ said Joe lamely.
‘Making you think, burglar. I can see why a man in your line of business might make such an assumption, but as my own error indicates, it is not one to rush into rashly. No, if it were the front door alone, I would have no problem in seeing an explanation. Morna is a trusting soul, still inhabiting that mainly mythical bygone era when no one needed to lock their doors and a naked virgin with a bag of gold could walk the length of Offa’s Dyke utroubled by anything worse than blisters and a chest cold. As for Owain, not even the best education money can buy has been able to persuade him that doors do not close automatically behind him. But the cellar door, and the wine rack … unless I myself am in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, I see no immediate explanation. How about you, Mr Sixsmith?’
‘Eh?’ said Joe, feeling the hot breath of accusation.
‘You are a detective after all. Much of your working life must be spent in propounding hypotheses.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m mainly out and about,’ said Joe.
‘Of course. Cogito ergo sum, sed laboro ergo vivo, eh?’
‘Sorry, like you saw last night, I don’t speak Welsh.’
This gave Lewis the pleasure of a superior smile. Joe didn’t mind. He’d long since given up trying to close the gap between clever devils and himself, but he’d found that letting them think it was even wider than it was often worked to his advantage. He’d sung too many requiems and the like not to recognize Latin when he heard it, and he could even have tried at a translation. I think therefore I am, but I work therefore I live.
‘So you saw nothing suspicious in or around the house? Nobody lurking in the shrubbery? No car parked off the drive?’
Joe thought about the intruder in the school but decided that was too complicated to raise just now. He saw that Lewis had clocked the hesitation and tried to look like a trained PI running a sequence of events through the VTR of his mind.
‘Sorry. It all looked normal. Probably like you say. Mrs Lewis forgot. Hey, what gives at the festival, you back so early? I thought things were going to be back on course pretty soon?’
Singing the Sadness Page 16
