Dying to Write

by Judith Cutler

  Surely he was walking too purposefully for that?

  I dodged into a redundant pigsty. From its cover I watched him.

  He jumped lightly from tussock to tussock as if he were enjoying himself. And he was heading towards me. He was probably my age or a bit nearer forty. An embarrassing encounter or a humiliating bolt? Neither – he struck off uphill towards a symmetrical hummock.

  I emerged cautiously. There was a convenient mounting block on the barn wall. If I climbed that, it would give me an extra hundred yards’ vision.

  The hummock was the shape of a Christmas-card igloo. He approached it, then started to drop from view. Presumably there were steps down into it. For a moment he disappeared altogether. But then he reappeared, dusting his fingers together, and clambered to the top of the mound. King of the Castle. Monarch of all he surveyed.

  I’d prefer him not to survey me.

  I dropped from the block and scurried to the sty. Years ago I’d read about a murder – and surely it had been real, not fiction – in which the victim was fed to pigs. The thought made my stomach heave again. It would just have to heave. The last way I wanted to greet any visitor was on my hands and knees.

  He was on the move again.

  Back to my ruins?

  No, he was returning whence he’d come. This time he did stop for a pee.

  He vaulted the stile with panache, and that was the last I saw of him. I could only deduce it was his car I glimpsed through the gap in the hedge. Red and glossy. But more I could not tell.

  The mound turned out to be a prosaic little ice house. It was locked, of course, and barred. I pulled meaninglessly at one of the bolts securing it. Then I too scrambled back up the steps, dusting rust from my hands.

  I jogged back slowly, and was almost at the house when I was galvanised by the sight of a police tow-truck, with Kate’s car perched apparently precariously on the back. Kate’s car! I should have told Chris about Kate’s car! Now it was too late. Any revealing footprints – if indeed there had ever been any in the coarse gravel – would have been well and truly messed up. To prove it to myself I went and had a look. Two constables were still there, talking loudly and derisively about a colleague who’d come out as gay. I had to remind myself it was none of my business, that I shouldn’t say anything. And I didn’t get the chance, anyway. They ordered me away – the only men in Chris’s team who’d been anything other than courteous and pleasant. Since they were stamping all over the gravel, there was no point in arguing. I turned mildly and went to hunt for a second breakfast. I went via the stables but Chris was nowhere to be seen and I suspected if I told anyone else that I thought I might have heard a car door slam, they’d dismiss it as irrelevant and not bother to tell Chris anyway.

  ‘Out of training, Miss Rivers?’ Gimson asked dryly as I pushed open the kitchen door. ‘You look very pale. Perhaps you went too far?’

  I reached for the kettle and filled it before I spoke. I needed something sweet. Perhaps there was some drinking chocolate in the cupboard. And Shazia should have replenished the biscuit barrel by now.

  ‘A little further than usual, perhaps. I wanted to think.’

  ‘I trust you found a quiet corner?’

  ‘On the contrary, a very noisy one,’ I said, foolishly. I rattled my way through the cupboard and came up with a jar of chocolate. I made it strong and milky, and added more sugar than I’d normally have gone through in a week.

  ‘Ah, down by the motorway?’

  ‘It was worse than being near the speakers at a pop concert.’

  I burrowed in the biscuit tin. It was satisfactorily full.

  ‘An experience I have so far managed to avoid, Miss Rivers. And so should you, in future. Low-frequency noise is known to have unpleasant effects. Nausea, for instance.’

  Smiling coldly in acknowledgement, I took my chocolate and four custard creams, and passed through the reception area, where I ran into a harassed Shazia.

  ‘We’ll be having them by the coachload soon,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to get a guidebook printed, sell afternoon teas. You lot can be official guides.’

  ‘Or exhibits,’ I said. ‘What’s been happening, Shazia?’

  ‘Three more Japanese. And a very rude man who looked sort of Chinese. Fortunately Naukez was here.’

  ‘Have you told Chris?’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, for goodness’ sake! I can’t bother him with every chance visitor. You know the Japanese are obsessed with the Brontës – there are even signposts in Japanese on the moors round Haworth.’

  ‘Whom did they want?’

  ‘The Japanese? “Charrotte Brontë”, of course.’

  ‘And the rude Chinese?’

  She looked distressed. ‘Nyree. I tried to explain that she was no longer with us. He didn’t seem to understand – kept on asking where she was.’

  ‘I suppose you didn’t happen to notice what sort of car he drove?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘It seems to me that we should notice everything just now, Shazia. After all, there’s one woman dead and another missing –’

  Fortunately, just as I was getting pompous and didactic, Naukez put his head round the back door. The other three sighed in sympathy.

  ‘You OK now, Shaz?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Great.’

  He withdrew.

  ‘Did the Chinese hurt you?’ I asked, sharply, because I ought to have spoken to Naukez and didn’t for fear of upsetting Shazia.

  ‘No. Pushed me a bit. But I’m a bit off colour. I got all weepy.’

  I nodded my sympathy. And, trying not to spill my chocolate, I legged it as fast as I could to Chris. Surely by now he’d be back in the stable block.

  The stable door was the old-fashioned type. Someone had fastened back the top half. Chris was in a group of men and women near the door. He was bending over something I couldn’t yet see, wearing the glasses that made him look like a desiccated schoolmaster. The sun faded his blond hair further and explored the tired lines of his face. And when he turned and looked up, it spotlit the expression of hope and joy he quickly suppressed.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, in a strongly official voice.

  ‘Kate’s car. You’ve had it taken away?’

  ‘I thought we ought to check it.’

  ‘Why only now?’

  ‘No reason to – if you don’t suspect foul play.’

  ‘And you do now? You see, I think I might have heard someone using a car last night, very late, and I also think it was in a different position when I looked at it this morning. I’m sorry. I should have said.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t mention it earlier,’ he said, sounding parental. ‘Never mind, it’ll be kept at Rose Road nick and given the most thorough going-over it’s ever had in its young life.’

  ‘What will they be looking for?’

  ‘Anything and everything. Do I have to spell it out?’ He looked at his watch irritably.

  I shrugged and turned to the door. Then I stopped. It was as if my mouth spoke without my mind, and I was quite interested in what it had to say.

  ‘Chris, I have an idea that something might have been taken from my room.’

  ‘Might?’ He was at his driest and most irritating.

  I hesitated. I could be about to make an almighty fool of myself.

  ‘Sophie, what’s missing, for God’s sake?’

  It was unfortunate that one of those random silences should have chanced to fall as I replied.

  ‘A packet of tampons,’ I said, in my carrying, fill-the-lecture-room voice.

  Ten assorted police personnel can laugh very loudly. He flushed. I didn’t.

  ‘But surely you’d know for sure whether …’ By now he was red to the ears. ‘Aren’t they … monthly?’

  ‘Chris, I may have simply left a packet lying on my bedroom floor. But I thought I’d packed it. And it wasn’t there when your colleagues checked.’

  ‘Could you go home and find out?’

&nb
sp; ‘No transport.’

  ‘Hell – and we’re in the middle of a crisis. Some royal wants to commune with nature on the bloody Wrekin this afternoon, and all our mobiles –’

  ‘– are mobilised?’ I asked sweetly. ‘Or are they cars?’

  He grinned. ‘Bloody pedant!’

  ‘And Courtney?’

  ‘I’ve sent Tina to interrogate him. Very slowly.’

  I touched his hand lightly. ‘You’re a good man, Chris.’

  He flushed again.

  ‘Has Shazia told you about her visitors?’

  ‘Visitors?’

  I explained.

  He sent Ian Dale off to talk to her.

  It suddenly occurred to me that, tampons apart, it would be very convenient to spend a few minutes at home. I didn’t buy the idea that intelligent Japanese tourists who’d made their way across God knows how many time zones should suddenly fall down on their map-reading to that extent. Kenji had always urged me to phone him for a natter one day. This could be the very day. But some weird moral code dictated that I phone from home, not at someone else’s expense.

  But transport? I had to be back at Eyre House and on duty in the kitchen by two thirty at the latest.

  ‘Are you too busy to run me to Harborne? It’d take hours by bus, and a taxi would be absurd. And extortionate.’

  Poor Chris: he would have given much to have me on my own for the hour or so the errand would take. He wouldn’t have grabbed me or embarrassed me in any way. He’d simply have luxuriated in my company. And I’d have enjoyed his.

  At last he shook his head. Then he dug in his trouser pocket and thrust a bunch of keys at me.

  ‘Here: help yourself.’

  ‘Chris, I – your Peugeot!’

  An executive Peugeot. A 605. It was still new, still smelled of leather. He’d bought it when he fancied himself in some absurd competition for my affections with an old friend of mine who’d just bought a classy Renault.

  ‘Go on. But I could do with it about four, if that fits your plans.’

  We smiled at each other. He didn’t want to make any fuss that would draw the transaction to the notice of his colleagues. So I just nodded, picked up the keys and turned. ‘Will you show me what’s what?’

  We walked to the car park together.

  I live in Harborne, which is, according to the property pages of the Sundays, one of the more desirable of the Birmingham suburbs. Balden Road teeters on the edge of, and practically collapses into, Quinton, which is infinitely less desirable. I owe my presence there to the fact that one of my relatives omitted to make a will.

  George’s van sat patiently in the road outside, wishing its girth were small enough to let it get into my garage. I patted it gently, and then let myself into the house.

  There wasn’t much post – a couple of bills and a card from Carl just to say hello. At the moment it didn’t seem important. I dropped them on the kitchen table and dialled Japan. Kenji answered on the fourth ring.

  We greeted each other cautiously. I apologised for waking him. Kenji reminded me he was a light sleeper and admitted that he would not find it hard to fall asleep again. There was, however, a significant other in his life, who tended to lie awake if her slumber was broken, and –

  ‘God knows how much your moans are costing me, Kenji. I’m glad you’ve found someone else. I hope I haven’t woken her. Hell, you’re having me on, aren’t you? It can’t be much after ten over there, can it?’ I shut up. Kenji went to bed before one only if he went with someone and not to sleep. ‘Having an early night,’ had always been his euphemism for what usually turned out to be a protracted, inventive and often enjoyable bonk. Then curiosity got the better of me. ‘Who is she? What does she do?’

  ‘She’s an American journalist. Works for CNN.’

  ‘Better and better. Now here’s what I want you to do.’

  ‘I don’t want to do anything.’

  ‘You always said I only had to ask. I’m asking.’ I explained about unwonted oriental interest in a corner of the West Midlands, and about Nyree’s defecting husband. If I stopped, Kenji prompted me with a little grunt.

  ‘You think there might be a connection between our government bribes scandal and this disreputable diplomat?’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘I can’t think of any other reason to ask me.’

  Neither could I.

  I asked after his rabbit. He asked after my marking. We bade each other a polite au revoir.

  I watered the herbs on my kitchen window and fed them a little Phostrogen. George’s thyme. George’s rosemary. His coriander was long dead.

  There was no packet of tampons on my bedroom floor.

  I locked up and headed back to Eyre House.

  The big Peugeot was such a delight to drive I didn’t want to return it. I’ve always bought other people’s mistakes, and cheap ones at that. But I love driving with a passion I find embarrassing. Now I had found a vehicle that behaved like a car, not a supermarket trolley. It went where and when I wanted it to. The radio tuned quickly to Three FM.

  The temptation to whizz up the motorway was almost overwhelming. M6 or M5? Sophie, the choice is yours! But it wasn’t. Chris needed his car. I had to get back. I was supposed to be writing a poem. More important, I had to tell Chris what I’d found. Or rather hadn’t. Soberly I picked my way through West Bromwich, past the football ground where Andy and I had cheered the Albion as kids. I found myself going more and more reluctantly. It was as bad as driving to work.

  Back at Eyre House, I reversed the Peugeot into a parking space and grinned at Chris, who emerged from the stables talking to Ian and Ade. Ade gave a thumbs-down gesture – I gathered there was no sign of Sidney. Chris walked across to me, looking ostentatiously for signs of damage to his baby.

  As I locked up and passed him the keys, I told him about the tampson. As an afterthought I reported my conversation with Kenji. He laughed, and beckoned me to follow him to the stables. I was about to be patronised. I’d let him get away with it this time: a swap for the Peugeot.

  An acned constable was tapping data horribly slowly into a computer. He made way for Chris, who sent him off to lunch. I peered over Chris’s shoulder. Computer-literate I might now be, but I’m always fascinated by other people’s expertise. And there we were. In the States, being welcomed to the files of NYPD. Then LA. I was about to make impressed noises when Matt appeared at Chris’s other shoulder.

  ‘Wonderful!’ he said. ‘You can fart about all over the bloody States but you can’t fucking well locate one woman in sodding Birmingham. Damn it, we don’t know whether she’s still alive –’

  Quite needlessly, Chris pressed my foot. As he did so, he said mildly: ‘We’ve actually been using this to check Kate’s past –’

  ‘She was positively vetted.’

  ‘Yes. A very important woman. So it may well be that someone in her past bears her a grudge.’

  ‘Try Gimson for a start,’ said Matt savagely. ‘She went quite white the moment the bastard came into the room.’

  I looked up sharply. I’d heard Gimson threaten her with something. When? Something about every possible step? And he’d not been happy with Sidney’s presence in the house. I’d been stupid to let my dislike of him show so much: he’d hardly cooperate with me if I started to question him, no matter how circumspectly. Consultant surgeons needn’t be intellectuals, but they couldn’t be utter fools.

  The more I tried to recall their conversation, the less I was able to. Perhaps I had to creep up quietly on the memory and surprise it.

  The way I suddenly surprised Matt’s reference to paraquat. Why hadn’t I told Chris about it? But I liked Matt enough to want to speak to him in private first.

  ‘We’re questioning everyone,’ said Chris, his voice even and calm. ‘If you’ve got time, I’d like to talk to you myself – after lunch, perhaps. Say two thirty? After a short meeting I’d like everyone to attend at two. Would you try and get people together in
the lounge, Matt? You and Shazia. Nothing startling. Just to keep everyone briefed. What’s the matter, Sophie?’

  ‘You promise it’ll be short? I’ve got a lot of cooking to do.’

  ‘Very short.’

  So we gathered, as requested, in the lounge. Courtney was there, sitting as if by choice with Tina. He ventured the tiniest grin in my direction. The only people missing were Toad and the sci-fi buff. Shazia sat beside Matt and Chris. The rest of us were in a rough semicircle. Ian Dale slipped in after Chris had started to speak. I don’t think anyone else noticed him, but I picked up the smell of his aftershave, a surprisingly sexy one for such a bastion of respectability.

  ‘I suppose you people will insist on incarcerating us here till you’ve managed to establish –’

  ‘No,’ said Chris.

  I’m sure he enjoyed saying it. The monosyllable came out with great weight and gusto. He allowed himself to glance at me before addressing himself more fully to Gimson’s question. ‘No, Mr Gimson, we’ll be operating the standard police procedure for cases like this.’

  ‘I have the most important meeting scheduled for Monday,’ Gimson said. ‘Trust status for St Jude’s. It’s imperative I attend.’

  ‘I’m quite sure you will, Mr Gimson. I’m trying to explain, sir, if you’ll give me a chance. What we do these days is to ask you all to make detailed statements. Then we ask for your home address. Your local police will verify this for me. Thereafter you’ll be free to go about your business. We’d like you to be available for further talks if necessary, so it might be a bit tricky if you wanted to leave the country.’ He smiled, everyone’s favourite nephew or cousin. ‘We have, after all, two quite difficult problems here. Nyree’s sleeping tablets have not turned up; there is no sign of Kate. We need all the cooperation you can give us.’

  ‘What are you going to do about Nyree’s tablets?’ asked Shazia.

  ‘To be honest, it’s so vital we find them I’m going to ask you to let my colleagues check your rooms. They’re all professionals. They won’t disturb or damage your possessions. But we do need to establish once and for all that they’re nowhere in Eyre House.’