Dying for Millions

by Judith Cutler

  I was up soon afterwards myself, going home to change. I left Andy where he was: apparently Ian had plans which involved collecting him later in the day. So I was alone in my house for a while – long enough to get breakfast, to shower and wash my hair, and go through the post. ‘Lonely but free’ had been Brahms’s motto – I whistled the theme to the Third Symphony to remind myself. But the sound echoed round the empty rooms. Maybe I should think of taking in a lodger? Despite the central-heating, I shivered: someone walking over my grave. Not mine, if I could help it! It occurred to me that the little canister Chris had given me might be more useful on my person than in the kitchen: if there were another attack there was no guaranteeing it would be in such a convenient location. I shoved it in my bag.

  To work, then. As I parked, Richard drew up: I waited for him, observing the hunch of his shoulders, the down-turned mouth, the greyness of his skin. How long had his hair been silvering? It was white, now, at the temples. All this for a William Murdock that no longer cared about him or the fact that he was wifeless. I found I had opened my arms to cuddle him – a gesture I had quickly to convert to a slapping across the chest against the cold wind. He smiled, if such a wan movement of the mouth can be called a smile, and fell into step beside me. He shot a couple of glances at me, keen, at a guess, to ask me to keep quiet about Thursday night. What could I say? A rhetorical ‘Your secret is safe with me?’

  ‘Are you staying on in Brum when you leave?’ I asked at last, hoping he’d pick up the sub-text of my question.

  He nodded. ‘They say you shouldn’t do anything in a hurry when you retire.’

  ‘I hope you’ll keep in touch,’ I said, turning to face him before we went into the foyer. ‘You could risk some of my cooking.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he began, awkwardly.

  I shook my head. ‘I should enjoy it. You might not!’

  He smiled. Then he nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. Yes: he could trust me not to blab. We waited for the lift together.

  As we chugged up, I wondered about Gurjit. It was inevitable that she should seek me out, and I clearly had to say something that would reassure her about her work, both at college and at the airport. What could I say? That I’d like to knee-cap her father? That she should pursue her relationship with Mark, no matter what? Or would she be better to pursue the career her parents – correction, her father – wanted? She was academically gifted, she’d enjoy the Merc, and she might well be happier married to someone of her own background. Perhaps all she had was a crush – love at first sight was pretty unreliable. Sometimes.

  ‘Are you all right, Sophie?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  ‘You sighed as if – you’re sure?’

  I must have sounded bad for Richard to notice. I pulled myself up and straightened my shoulders. ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  So I was, compared with Gurjit. Her black clothes hanging drably on her, she leaned against the wall outside the staff room as if she could no longer support her own weight. Her skin was blotchy – from crying if her eyes were anything to go by, though she insisted she merely had a cold when I questioned her.

  ‘My father is right,’ she said, pre-empting anything I might have said. ‘My college studies must come first. The hours have been over-long, and I’m not sufficiently at home at a keyboard to clear the backlog as quickly as Mark needed it cleared. I let him down – just as I’ve let you down by pulling out like this.’

  I shook my head. ‘You stuck at it longer than most. And it sounds as if Mark asked too much of you.’

  ‘I’m afraid his expectations were too high.’

  She didn’t talk as if she were suffering from a broken heart; but in my experience that didn’t mean she wasn’t.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ I said, as if I’d just been struck with inspiration. ‘I’ll go round to the airport myself tonight and see how much of the backlog I can clear, shall I? And tell him officially that you’ve left. With a bit of luck he’ll be so pleased by the amount we achieved between us he’ll give you a smashing reference. Would you want – I could take a message for you.’

  She smiled, painfully, shook her head. ‘What about that fraud?’ she asked, with an obvious effort.

  I hoped I’d got away with that. ‘Something’s obviously been going on. But I doubt it’s that serious. I’ll talk to him tonight, shall I?’

  She lost what little colour she’d had. ‘He’s bound to blame me …’

  Logic didn’t come into it, did it? And I thought of her parents, and mourned her lost self-esteem.

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘I’d really rather you said nothing – to anyone, Sophie.’

  ‘Not even to the person who I think has been doing it?’

  ‘Could you – really?’

  ‘I’ve no proof.’ With a bit of luck I wouldn’t have, anyway. ‘But I’ve got a suspicion. Let me see what I can do.’ It occurred to me that there were other people than Richard in the world who might need a hug; I reached up and gave her one. ‘Remember: you know where to find me if you need me.’

  Her smile was watery, but brave. And then her eyes, catching sight of something behind my back, widened in horror; I turned, following their gaze.

  Nothing out of the ordinary, not at William Murdock, deplore it how I might. A young woman dressed from head to toe in black, her face veiled so heavily that there was not more than a two-by-six-inch slit for her eyes. If Gurjit’s eyes had been smeared with tears, this woman’s were bloodshot with bruising: she staggered, rather than walked, along the corridor.

  ‘Halima!’ Gurjit breathed. She turned to me. ‘It’s Halima. See you later, Sophie.’ And she strode off, purposeful again, putting her arms gently round the other woman’s shoulders. She glanced quickly back at me. Yes, she knew where to find me. If she needed me.

  Having such a splendid young woman putting so much trust in me was scarcely likely to make me feel any better about my criminal activities. OK, there were hundreds of other young women who would benefit from Andy’s Third World work – but I’d spent all my life not only on the side of right but inculcating it into others. If I could get off my high horse and be simply pragmatic it would be better for all concerned. Nearly all. Not the drugs companies, of course, but I found it hard to squeeze a tear for the big multinationals. Their shareholders? Nice ordinary people like me? Surely, a few pence off their dividends wouldn’t hurt anyone. I squared my shoulders. I’d whip through the paper records that were left, get them into the post, zap home and spend the night talking to Switzerland. And tomorrow please God, I could start living a normal life again.

  Normal. Except for the fact that someone from Andy’s past was trying to kill him – and wouldn’t mind getting his evil mitts on me. I fingered the canister in my bag.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  For once I had an attack of common-sense. There was no way I could work all evening without eating first. And it would give time for the huge traffic tailbacks from Spaghetti Junction to clear from the city centre, which they threatened to gridlock. That nice Italian place called loudly.

  The table nearest the bar was occupied by the middle-aged couple I’d seen there before: at least, their coats were draped on their chairs, but they were squatting by the bar. I scanned the menu. Eventually he got up, disappearing into the kitchen, to return with an enormous pair of scissors. She pointed at a weak stem on an anaemic plant; he argued, and pointed to another node. At last, he snipped, she gathered up the foliage, and they both disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear their laughter. Then they returned to their table, arms wrapped round each other, and simply sat, smiling at each other warmly, toasting each other as they sank red wine.

  When the chef-cum-waiter asked what I wanted to drink, what could I do? I did what the woman in the movie did: pointed to them, and said, ‘Whatever she’s having.’

  I arrived at the airport early enough to greet one or two of the regular workers leaving: nothi
ng like being brazen. I also knocked at Mark’s door, but a passing woman who might well have been his secretary told me he’d been off all day. What did that mean for me? A clearer run – or a constant fear that he was the sort of person who’d make up for a day’s absence by turning up in the evening? I thought it safer to assume the latter.

  Gurjit had left all the post ready to go out in a laser printer paper box in the corner. It was no problem to fish out the Wednesday invoices, and reprint them. There must have been three weeks’ invoices altogether: why couldn’t the airport simply have brought in temps to do the job, rather than using unpaid student labour? Although perhaps it was lucky for me they hadn’t. But a temp would certainly have been more efficient, and I’d have thought efficiency in collecting money owed to you was one of the essentials of good management. I’d have gone for self-sealing envelopes, too: it’d take me a week to lick this lot. Then I remembered a delight from my own temping days – the artificial licker. Almost certainly it had a more grown-up name, but that seemed good enough to me for a rubber roller that rotated in a bath of water. The desk I was using presumably didn’t belong to anyone, so I rooted through it, eventually emerging triumphant. Mindful of all that business about security even when going to the loo, I filled it from a kettle that stood on the window sill. Whoever owned it had the makings of a penicillin farm to rival ours at William Murdock: I suspected the only safe thing to do with the green furry mugs was to bin the lot.

  As the printer sighed out invoices, I folded and stuffed and sealed. The folds were probably nowhere as meticulous as Gurjit’s, but the pile in the out-tray was growing splendidly. There was no doubt about it – I was winning.

  I’d dressed as if for burglary, in the black trouser suit I’d taken to wearing to visit employers whose Asian sensibilities might have been offended by thick tights and miniskirts, so I could have gone for a prowl on the tarmac without being very noticeable. But there was nothing to take me outside. I ought to speed up my stuffing and sticking, and then I could push off and start my Swiss activities. As my hands found a rhythm, my brain went into neutral: a logical place for it to find Andy, I suppose. At least he’d been safe all day. Now the police knew who they were looking for, protecting Andy might become a higher priority. They might even have picked up Malpass by now, so he could euphemistically assist them with their inquiries. I found it in me to regret the passing of the days when the police could be thoroughly unpleasant to a suspect, and then clapped a Guardian-buying hand to my mouth. The desire for simple revenge for what Malpass had done to Andy – and me – shocked me. I saw it all over again: the fall, the dreadful broken body. Pete Hughes, caught up in someone else’s obsession, someone else’s madness. Society would demand its revenge for that, I hoped.

  Then I was too busy fending off the spear of pain from my stomach to be vengeful any more. I grabbed two antacid tablets from my bag, but the pain was so vicious I leaned over the pile of post, bracing myself, willing it to clear.

  As I did so, the door opened and the lights went out.

  I was too slow. He was on me before I could move, grabbing me from the rear in a bear-hug. There was nothing I could do: I was totally pinioned. And the hands were moving across to my chest. And what the fingers were doing to the nipples confirmed what the pressure lower down suggested: that someone was very pleased to see me. Or, rather, Gurjit.

  ‘Mark?’ I said, my voice muffled by his arm. ‘Please stop that!’

  For answer he started to pivot me so he could reach my trousers’ zip.

  ‘Mark! Stop this, for goodness’ sake.’

  For answer he fastened his mouth to mine.

  My attempts to push him off made him all the more amorous. Then I realised – I was going to be raped. Was this what he’d planned for Gurjit? A rape? Or did she like her sex like this? My God, what a mess.

  At last I got a hand free, trying to push it across his mouth. But it was easier to grab his nose, twisting it at first gently and then quite fiercely. He squealed – and I reached for the light switch.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Mark – can’t you tell us apart?’

  ‘I thought you’d managed – I thought she’d – managed—’

  ‘And Gurjit likes her sex a bit rough, does she? Hell, Mark, she’s little better than a schoolgirl! And she’s led a very sheltered life.’ Irate-teacher mode seemed appropriate. It distracted me from two quite contradictory personal feelings: understandable outrage and a most unforgivable rush of physical desire.

  He put his hands to his face and started to cry.

  Scrubbing at those disgusting mugs, I had a chance to work out why. Was it sorrow for her? Shock? Fear for his job? Coffee was called for, whatever the reason. And a hearty implication that I’d forgive and forget, that he need not worry about my gossiping. I smiled at myself ruefully: it seemed my greatest talent lay in keeping stumm.

  He’d rearranged his professional dignity by the time I got back.

  ‘Didn’t Gurjit tell you she’d asked me to finish off her work? She said she was so embarrassingly far behind she didn’t think she could ask you for a reference. She’s very conscientious, is Gurjit.’

  I plugged in the kettle. It occurred to me, belatedly, that there might be other reasons for the immense backlog than Gurjit’s meticulous approach to work. And yet she had stoically – yes, it was more than passively – accepted her parents’ decision.

  ‘I just hoped—’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That they’d change their mind. Or that she’d change hers. You don’t think there’s any chance, do you?’

  ‘Do you expect an autocratic father, no matter how much he loves his daughter, to abandon his ambitions for her?’

  ‘She thought her mother—’

  ‘She doesn’t utter a word of protest. Not in public. And probably not much of one in private.’

  ‘So—’ He shrugged, and came to lean on the window still beside me. ‘D’you suppose – if I waited?’

  Would eighteen months at William Murdock and three years at University make Gurjit more independent? Or would she simply change her mind about him, as one did about one’s early loves? I must have been silent long enough to give him the answer he didn’t want: his head drooped, like Richard’s.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Sorry for everyone. I put my arm round his shoulders.

  At last he turned. ‘Sorry – about earlier.’

  ‘No problem.’ Not for him: I wasn’t so sure about myself. My heart felt physically heavy, and I realised my shoulders were slumping like his. I straightened. ‘At least all your invoices are done! I seem to work a bit more briskly than Gurjit.’

  ‘Yes. Well. I mean, thanks, Sophie. Really – thanks.’

  I had to tell him, didn’t I, about the lapse in his security. About the thefts. Warn him somehow. He was a decent man. He wasn’t responsible. But I wanted it to be some unknown individual who found a messy little buck stopping at his or her feet.

  Mark watched me stir whitener into the coffee. ‘That looks disgusting! Time for the pub, I should say.’

  I had to make sure.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to work one of those franking machines. Can I run this lot through first?’

  He looked at me in surprise, as well he might, but we turned it into a game – who could put a batch through in the least time – and I had the double pleasure of watching all those nice safe invoices diving into the post bag and seeing his face lighten with laughter.

  Neither of us drank enough to risk our licence. We talked about cricket and music – all very low-key – and arranged to meet in the Italian restaurant for a meal one evening the following week. Apart from anything else, I wanted to see if the plant surgery had worked.

  Andy was still up when I got back. His face was exceptionally grim.

  ‘They found him – then they lost him,’ he said.

  ‘Found—?’

  ‘Malpass. Living and working in Birmingham. And you’ll never guess where
he was living. Sit down, I’ll get you a drink. And some food.’

  ‘I don’t want anything. Just tell me!’

  He took my arm and drew me to the window. ‘You see that house over there? With the “For Sale” sign? Well, he’s been squatting there. But that’s not the whole of it, kid. Not by any means. Guess how they found out … But first of all, you are going to sit down and you are going to eat.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Take your coat off, wash your hands and go to the table like a good girl.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Smoked salmon, cream cheese, and bagels he’d shoved into the oven to warm. ‘Micro-waving them makes them tough,’ he said – anticipating my complaints about keeping an oven on at two hundred degrees for however long he’d been expecting me. ‘There! Eat and enjoy.’ He passed me a tray, and produced a promising-looking bottle from the fridge.

  I spread cream cheese on the first of the bagels. ‘Right. Pour yourself a glass and tell me.’

  ‘Do you remember asking why Griff wasn’t down here? And I said the fuzz had a close eye on me? Well, I found out just how close this afternoon. Those people opposite – the ones Aggie calls the old dears—’

  ‘Yes. The Harveys. The ones who’ve been having a lot of visitors recently.’

  ‘Not visitors. The fuzz. Surveillance duty. Watching me.’