Dying to Write

by Judith Cutler

  He nodded absently.

  I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-five. A bit early for breakfast, but I hadn’t anything else to do. And the interview with Chris about Courtney might be a bit fraught. I might as well eat now. And when I saw Shazia, I’d ask her to buy some rat food.

  And some other food! Today was Wednesday, the day I was to cook with Agnes and Thea. An urgent meeting was called for.

  ‘Coming down for some breakfast?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve got to read through this lot first.’ He gestured at a pile of manuscripts. ‘People will want a response when they see me.’

  I smiled. My students are like that. Hand in an essay three weeks late, and expect you to have it marked before lunch. At least my efforts hadn’t added to his stress.

  ‘And I can’t recall seeing anything of yours, Sophie, come to think of it.’

  I smiled again. And left the room at a run.

  What a pity I had to spoil my exit by returning for my biro. It’s vaguely special. A grateful student gave it to me, in the days when students could afford to show their gratitude without getting deeper into debt. There was no sign of the biro on the floor or on the chart.

  Matt patted a hand over his worktable. No joy.

  ‘There it is: over on the windowsill,’ he said, pointing. He walked across and picked it up. ‘Very nice,’ he said, inspecting it. ‘Engraved, too.’

  ‘You get me to write and I’ll give you an entire pen-and-pencil set, all engraved,’ I said. The way I was going it seemed a pretty safe offer. Then I lost interest in the game. I looked out of the window at the cars.

  I was sure Kate had parked more neatly than that. Everything she did with that little Peugeot was meticulous. I’d swear she’d left it exactly parallel to the wall. Now it was at an angle of some thirty degrees to it. I suppose the distortion in the old mirror glass, maybe the whole concept of the mirrors, had prevented me from noticing. I didn’t want to say anything to Matt at this point. I wanted to think about it, and maybe talk to Chris about it. He was bound to come looking for me soon. He’d probably go straight to my room. I’d better wait there for him.

  As soon as I opened the door to my bedroom I saw the note. I was meant to see it. It was, after all, fastened firmly to my pillow. The haft of the penknife they’d used was crimson against the white of the pillowcase.

  I managed not to scream aloud. I’d better find Chris. I backed out and closed the door firmly.

  The PC in the umbilical corridor – a different one from last night’s guardian of Courtney’s bag – thought he might be in ‘that lady writer’s room’.

  He was. Standing on duckboards. With him were his usual sergeant, Ian Dale, and a man in white overalls. Chris’s greeting was off-hand. Perhaps he was embarrassed by my assumption that I could intrude on him when he was working. Certainly he returned to his conversation with the man in overalls so quickly that if I interrupted now I’d look like an importunate child. And the news could wait – a few moments. Then I’d have to tell him about it, and ask about Kate’s car. I turned to Ian, who went so far as to shake my hand and greet me as ‘Sophie’. This was emotion indeed from Ian, a dour Brummie. He had shared with Tina the tedious duty of guarding me; he’d taken me supermarket shopping, in the hope that he’d discovered at last a suitable candidate for the role of Mrs DCI Groom, but he’d been sadly disappointed by my choice of vegetables. But anyone who’d chosen okra and aubergines would have been equally suspect – there was nothing personal.

  ‘Too thin, if you ask me,’ he said, indicating Chris with a jerk of his head. ‘And he could have done with a couple of days’ acclimatisation leave. Look at him.’

  The morning sun dug ruthlessly into every line on his face, highlighting the now quite definite stoop. I hoped Chris was sufficiently keen on pleasing me to risk an osteopath – he’d soon need one.

  As if to confirm my fears, as he straightened he put his hand to his back.

  ‘OK, Sophie, you may as well know: there was no sign of Kate Freeman anywhere in the grounds. No sign of any sort of struggle taking place. No nothing.’

  ‘So –?’

  ‘I’ve got two options: to assume – in the absence of those phenobarbitone tablets – that she killed Nyree and disappeared; or to assume that whoever disposed of Nyree has disposed of Kate, too.’

  ‘Which do you favour?’ I asked, feeling sick.

  ‘Open mind. I’m preserving the scene in either case. I shall have it sealed off and an officer on duty outside from now on. This is Ade, by the way. He’s in charge of the team looking for stuff for Forensics. The Forensic-Science Laboratory,’ he corrected himself with heavy irony.

  Ade and I shook hands. He was younger than me – probably only late twenties – and was unprepossessing with ginger hair, buck teeth and a slightly receding chin. But he had a brightness about his big brown eyes that suggested a great deal of intelligence.

  ‘Before Ade gets to work,’ Chris said, ‘cast your eyes around the room. Notice anything?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Anything different, out of place.’

  I closed my eyes, covering them with my hands. When Chris tried to speak, I waved him to silence. What I wanted to do was see what I’d seen when I came in for my tutorial. The biscuits, the computer and printer. On the wardrobe there’d been a thick towelling robe – she’d expected to have to share a bathroom since she’d come as a student. And a little leather harness for Sidney.

  I opened my eyes.

  The desk was almost bare. No biscuits. No computer or printer. Her manuscript was still there.

  ‘Have you stowed anything in those bags yet, Ade? I asked.

  ‘Nope,’ he replied, in a mellow Sheffield accent.

  ‘In that case, someone’s lifted the notepad and printer. And they’ve done it recently. They were there when I came in for Sidney’s cage yesterday afternoon. The biscuits had gone, though.’

  ‘What biscuits?’ asked Chris.

  ‘Kate kept a packet of digestive biscuits for Sidney. Look, there are some crumbs there.’ I pointed.

  ‘Risky, that,’ said Ade. ‘Small mammals can get diabetes if you give them too much sugary stuff.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Chris, tartly.

  ‘Bathrobe. A thick towelling one. Thicker than I could dry in a week. It was hanging over there, by Sidney’s lead. I suppose,’ I added hopefully, ‘I couldn’t liberate the lead, could I? It would make exercising Sidney much easier, and I can’t imagine that it’d provide much in the way of evidence.’

  ‘Like a bit of exercise, do rodents,’ Ade observed.

  Chris handed it to me without speaking.

  I pocketed it. ‘Thanks. What about her bag?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Have you found it? I think it was leather, but I only saw it in her car for a moment. Brown. A shoulder bag.’

  ‘No bag, sir,’ said Ade.

  ‘Coat? Shoes?’ said Chris.

  ‘Coat’s still in the wardrobe.’

  ‘How about slippers?’ I asked.

  ‘No slippers.’

  ‘Is that her nightie?’ I reached to pull back the duvet, but Chris shot out a restraining hand. ‘Sorry. Chris, I have to talk to you about something else, when you’ve a moment. Two other things, actually.’

  My voice must have shown more than I meant it to.

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes. D’you want to stay here? If not, Ian will go with you.’

  ‘No. I’ll be all right. I’ve got to have a word with my two fellow cooks so Shazia can get the ingredients for tonight’s meal. You’ll find me in the kitchen or the dining room.’ I smiled generally and left.

  Thea and Agnes were delighted with my rather malicious suggestion for supper. Shazia looked amused when my list involved fresh coriander, ginger and chillies, but said nothing. She headed off for her Renault. Then she turned back. ‘Don’t forget to cook for one extra,’ she said. ‘There’s that poet coming t
onight to do a reading. He’ll be eating with us too.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty!’ said Agnes. ‘Poor Mr Gimson may not want any.’

  Then I remembered Sidney, and hared off after Shazia: she added rat food to her list and promised extra digestives. Sidney’s diet was no business of mine.

  Ian was waiting for me outside my room. I opened the door, stood aside for him to go first and pointed. The note and knife were still there, the blade stabbing through a folded sheet of paper.

  Ian touched me gently on the arm and knelt on the floor. He tipped his head sideways to try to peer between the folds. But he wouldn’t touch it till Chris appeared.

  We surveyed the room together. My make-up lay where I’d left it on the dressing table. The pad was still on the desk. I knew better than to open any drawers or touch the wardrobe.

  Then I realised it was too quiet. Sidney!

  His cage was empty. I joined Ian kneeling on the floor; perhaps Sidney might just be under the bed.

  ‘Asking for divine assistance?’ Chris demanded lightly. Then his tone changed. ‘Jesus! Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’

  ‘That’s what I came for. To tell you. But I got sidetracked.’

  ‘Get Ade.’

  Ian left. I wondered why Chris hadn’t simply summoned him via his radio. Then he turned to me.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have listened. Thank God it was your pillow, not –’

  I wonder if he could have continued.

  ‘I’m fine, Chris. Honestly. I don’t like getting letters in this way, but I’ll bet it’s more a warning than a threat. Why don’t you open it?’

  ‘Photographs first. Evidence.’ He made an effort: ‘So why were you on your knees when I came in?’

  ‘Sidney. I was hoping he’d be under the bed. But there’s no sign of him. I suppose he could have climbed out of the window but –’

  ‘No chance. And there’d be little scrabble-marks where he’d tried to jump,’ said Ade, coming in with a camera bag. He took out an SLR and photographed my missive from a variety of angles. Then he passed Chris gloves, and held open a polythene bag to receive the knife, a Swiss Army one with God knows how many blades and a pair of nail scissors for good measure.

  Chris opened the note, holding it at arm’s length as if it were likely to explode. Then he pulled his head back. Finally he dug in his breast pocket for spectacles. Presbyopia. That’s what you get when you’re middle-aged.

  Wearing gold-rimmed half-moons, he held the paper so I could read it too.

  YOU. KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF MY BUISNESS.

  ‘Didn’t use his spell-check,’ I said. But my laughter was shaky.

  ‘My God, you’ve become computer-literate at last!’ So was his.

  ‘Nice print,’ said Ian, prosaically.

  ‘And what would our expert say?’ asked Chris, smiling at me ironically.

  So I decided to tell him: ‘Single-sheet feed, not tractor-driven. No perforations along the edge where the strip with the little holes has been torn off.’

  ‘Go on, Holmes.’

  ‘Laser or ink-jet? Or an extremely good 24-pin dot-matrix?’

  ‘Better and better. Any idea how many people have got word processors or computers?’

  I shook my head. ‘The one in the office has died: Shazia’s been using an aged Remington. There are ordinary typewriters at one end of the library. One of the older ladies, Jean, brought up an entire BBC Master, complete with printer. But her printer wouldn’t produce this quality.’ Come to think of it, I didn’t know why I’d bothered to mention it. Except I do tend to talk more when I’m upset.

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Kate, of course. The little number that was missing from her desk.’

  ‘I thought you said she had a notepad.’

  ‘A computer notepad, Chris. Posh. Expensive. And its printer.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘OK. Look here, Ian, go and do a room-to-room check, eh? Ade, roust out a few more SOCOs. I want this room quadruple-checked as soon as they’ve finished with Kate’s.’

  Ade waited for Ian to go first, then left himself.

  ‘How would whoever it was get in, Chris? I shut the door, I know I did. Because of Sidney.’

  Chris pulled out his wallet. ‘Probably used his flexible friend. Or maybe they take American Express. Oh, it’s so bloody easy, Sophie. You could do it yourself with a lock this old. And don’t take that as a hint to go and practise.’

  I think the severity was genuine.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know more than you’re letting on, Sophie? I hoped you’d be a source of useful gossip.’

  ‘Copper’s nark?’ I said nastily.

  ‘No, I know you won’t talk about friends. But these aren’t your friends. They’re just acquaintances, surely?’

  ‘And one of them is missing, one I hoped might be a friend. Funny, I think one or two people have struck up friendships. But there’s a singular lack of camaraderie, now I come to think of it. The only other person I’ve had more than a passing conversation with is the person I wanted to talk to you about.’ Hell, I was letting him off far too lightly. I should have dropped coy hints, dropped my eyes a little. ‘Courtney, that Afro-Caribbean man. He’s an ex-con. He left you a present last night. Here’s the key for the padlock.’ I fished in my pocket and dropped the key in his hand.

  Most of my explanation was truthful. I told him I’d gone along to Courtney’s room because I knew he was worrying about something, that he’d told me about the gun and then acted on my advice. Chris nodded gravely, then looked me for a moment in the eye.

  ‘You know he’s violated the terms of his parole?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Straight back to gaol. Loss of remission.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Had a grudge against Kate – wanted her silenced.’

  ‘You’ve seen him already, then?’

  ‘He was sitting on the front steps waiting for me, Sophie. He wanted to keep you out of it, but there was the small matter of the key.’

  ‘He had every reason to want Kate alive, Chris. He’s writing a screenplay and wanted her help.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  Chris was vacillating: I could hear it in his voice. I was glad I wasn’t in his position. If he ignored a very serious offence, and Courtney was eventually proved to be implicated, Chris would be in grave trouble. But his humanitarian instincts were proving very strong.

  ‘The screenplay? No. But I’m sure he could show it to you. Matt would be able to authenticate it.’

  Chris walked over to the window. ‘I’ve got to bloody turn him in. Got to. Haven’t I?’

  ‘You’ve certainly got to find out why he had a gun in the first place. I must admit, much as I like him, that’s the thing that worries me. Eyre House didn’t strike me as the sort of place you needed to carry a weapon. At least,’ I added with gloomy irony, ‘not until one woman died and another disappeared.’

  ‘And what I now want to make sure,’ Chris said, with no irony at all, ‘is that a third woman doesn’t come to any harm.’

  ‘I’ll look after myself,’ I said. ‘I promise.’

  Chapter Eight

  I wanted to run.

  But first I had to watch the scene-of-crime team go through my belongings: Chris had asked me to before he tactfully withdrew to the stables. He wanted to know at once if anything was missing, if anything had been disturbed. Something niggled at the back of my mind, but the whole scenario seemed more like a tableau from someone else’s life – more and more I felt I should be watching from the ceiling, as Agnes had done. In the end, although I knew Chris would be irritated, I did grab my running things and set off to put as much space as possible between me and Eyre House. Perhaps I ought to have tried to make systematic notes. But I knew that my brain would simply not function for a while.

  I’d never had the chance to ask Naukez why he wanted to keep me
away from that patch in the woods, so I resolved to explore the area. I had no real reason to, except I’m naturally nosy and I suppose I wanted to prove to myself that Naukez was not a sinister, duplicitous man. In fact, I wanted Shazia’s husband to be quite definitely on the side of the angels.

  I forced myself to run slowly enough to have plenty in reserve. I took the shortest approach, retracing the route I’d taken back to the house yesterday.

  No one intercepted me this time. I left the main path to follow a scarcely defined track down to a largish hollow. The terrain was oddly lumpy: something else I might ask Naukez about. Some bracken grew at such judicious intervals that I expected to find David Attenborough and a film crew lurking. I found no one. Since even I know that ten thirty in the morning is an inappropriate time for badgers, I shrugged, and headed off downhill to the corner of the park furthest from the house. There was a jumble of dilapidated buildings down there – the old home farm, perhaps.

  Every instinct told me to give up. The traffic noise became a physical force pressing me back. It poured into my ears, of course, and then into my nose and mouth and chest. It resonated on my bones, like loud music at a pop concert.

  I had to get away.

  But I had to check first. OK, I was being totally illogical: how could I hope to find anyone, anything, a team of experts had missed? Nonetheless, I couldn’t do what I wanted most of all to do, turn tail and bolt back to base.

  I made myself follow the outlines of what I presumed was a farmhouse – square-built, and, you’d have thought, completely impervious to the elements. But it seemed to have been defeated by the noise of the motorway. I moved on. There was a well in the far corner. The cover – crisscrossed iron bars – was rusted too tightly for me to shift. I’d have to assume no one else had moved it. In any case, there was water only twelve inches down. Anyone down there would be dead.

  Dead as George.

  My stomach wouldn’t take it. If I didn’t get away from here I’d throw up. The only way I’d do it was by making my legs work again, but they were like jelly. At last I managed an extremely sedate jog. I’d got as far as a rotting gate when I realised I was no longer alone. Some three hundred yards away, a man was climbing a stile. Probably he’d wanted a pee and pulled off the road which crossed the motorway.