Dying to Write

by Judith Cutler

  He went slowly down the steps and gave the door a perfunctory rattle. Then he came and stood beside me again.

  ‘We looked all over this lot, Sophie,’ he said at last, his voice heavy with forbearance.

  ‘I’m sure you did. And it’s too hot to be doing all this haring about now. I’m sorry, Ian. I don’t know what I’m doing or why.’

  ‘You think Kate’s still alive, don’t you? The gaffer does, too. He thinks someone’s keeping her alive. That asthma spray and what have you.’

  ‘It has to be someone on the course. There’ve been so many of you people around, no one else would have had access to the things. But the course ends tomorrow. So what will whoever it is do then?’

  We stood side by side, staring at the ice house, absorbed in thoughts that were for me, at least, very disturbing. What would I do, if I’d kept someone for a week without a ransom demand? Or had one been made, without Chris telling me?

  ‘I suppose no one’s been in touch with your people?’

  ‘Lots of them, Sophie. Cranks anonymous. People knowing where she is, and by the way, is there a reward? A couple of clairvoyants: one of them says she’s dead and buried in the Mendips, and the other says she’s alive, “somewhere”. But there haven’t been any proper ransom demands.’

  ‘So what happens tomorrow? Does the kidnapper set her free? Or kill her? Or go home and leave her to starve to death?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as ours. The problem is, he’s no fool, this villain. He obviously knows you’re on to him.’

  ‘I wish I bloody were!’

  ‘Thinks you’re on to him, then. Sophie, this isn’t the time for do-it-yourself detection, you know. If you’ve got any ideas, for God’s sake tell me. Or Chris.’

  ‘I’ve told you the only thing I can think of. And I know there’s some Japanese trade connection with Vietnam – it’s in this morning’s FT, nothing secret. That’s why the Japanese wanted Nyree, no doubt – something to do with some deal her husband’s involved in. No idea what, though. And no idea at all how that would involve Kate. Unless you’ve come up with things in her past?’ I paused hopefully.

  ‘Not a bloody thing. She was good at her job, then she picked up a legacy – yes, all bona fide, we checked it – and took premature retirement. Like that Matt said, she was positively vetted. Jesus, Sophie, this is a crazy spot to stand talking in. No shade for miles. Nowhere to sit. And it’s so humid you’d think you were in Viet bloody Nam itself.’

  ‘That’s what she called it,’ I said. ‘Nyree. She didn’t want to go.’

  ‘Don’t blame her.’ He turned and scanned the expanse of parkland, which shimmered back, blandly. ‘All this space, and all within spitting distance of Brum. I’m surprised someone’s not developed it properly. This side of the motorway, you know, this’d make a good golf course. And that marshland across the way – I’m surprised no one’s got round to dredging it. Make a nice little water-park, that would. Ever done any windsurfing, Sophie?’

  ‘It’s a nice thought, in this weather.’

  We turned together and walked slowly back to the farm. We paused there long enough for another cursory check.

  Nothing.

  The air pulsed in the sun. We walked as quickly as we could towards the gate, Ian putting his hand to my arm if he thought I was stumbling.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ he said, ‘I had this book about India, I think it was. How when they wanted to get a tiger for the sahibs to shoot, they used to tether this goat where the tiger could see it or smell it or whatever. In this heat, in this noise, stuck up there on that hill, I reckon I knew what that goat felt like. Come on,’ he added in his normal voice, ‘I need a cup of tea.’

  We spent the journey back putting together a team for the MCC’s winter tour. It was too short for us to get beyond the opening batsmen and the possibility of a specialist wicket-keeper. I’d have been happy to spend the rest of the afternoon talking cricket. It would certainly have been preferable to hanging around waiting for someone to do something, possibly to me. He must have seen my expression as we pulled into the area the police had appropriated for their car park.

  ‘Come along with me – I reckon you need some tea, too. Any response to the gaffer’s press conference?’ he asked the room at large, as we entered the comparative cool of the stable.

  There was a gloomy murmur. He pointed to the chair beside the desk and went to make the tea himself. No one else would make it the way he likes it: Earl Grey so pale as to be gold; no milk; a paper-thin slice of lemon. He didn’t speak until we’d drained our cups. Then, as I heaved myself up from the chair, he said quietly, ‘I’ll have another look at those statements, Sophie. See if anyone else was sleepy after that pudding. In the meantime,’ he added, raising his voice, ‘no more heroics, eh? Remember that goat!’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two thirty. The kitchen was still empty. I was so out of touch with the course I coudn’t even remember who was supposed to be cooking? Was it Gimson? And wasn’t there some rumour that he was refusing to take his place in the roster? I suppose, since he was no doubt considering the joys of Harborne, or that part of it that comprised Rose Road Police Station, the whole issue was academic anyway.

  I put on the kettle for another cup of tea. I’d been foolish to drink beer in such heat, especially at midday: it had left me feeling very second-hand. My clothes were sticking to me, the sweat defying my deodorant, and my hair was wilting. The whole of me was wilting, come to think of it. I could do with a nap. But the fear that it would turn into a whole afternoon’s sleep put me off the idea, and I joggled the teabag in the hot water rather longer than usual. I needed to raise my caffeine level a bit.

  At this point Shazia pushed open the door, banging down a couple of Sainsbury’s carrier bags on the table. She didn’t speak to me, but ostentatiously emptied the bags, putting a load of salad stuff into the sink. Without asking I boiled the kettle and made another mug of tea. I passed it to her. She pushed it away. Oh, God: I’d made another enemy. I’d wanted Shazia as a friend but I suppose my offhand attitude to the course had irritated her. Funny, I’d thought we were on the same wavelength at supper last night. I ought to ask her what I’d said or done, and explain or apologise.

  Suddenly she turned. ‘I know it’s not your fault. I’m being unfair,’ she said. She picked up the tea. ‘But they’ve taken Naukez now.’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Just for questioning, they say, but – oh, Sophie, what did you say? To make them suspect him?’

  ‘I just said I’d seen him leaving the house. But it wasn’t him I followed, Shazia. I followed someone else. I don’t know who. You could hardly see your hand in front of your face before that storm. They can’t think it was anything to do with Naukez!’

  ‘It’s because he’s out on his own such a lot. No alibi. And they reckon he must know the park better than anyone. And, of course, he had that problem with Nyree. Horrible woman!’

  ‘What problem, Shazia?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? You must be the only one who doesn’t, then. She followed him up to our flat, the first morning she saw him. The Monday, I suppose it must have been. I seem to have lost all track of time. And then that afternoon she kept on pestering him to take her to see the badgers. Oh, Sophie, what if he had? If she’d been with him when she died?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to interrupt her: she plainly needed to talk to someone.

  ‘If his family find out … They’ve never liked me. They’ll blame me for not being a good wife, or something.’

  ‘They can’t do that! You’ve done nothing wrong!’ But then I remembered families didn’t necessarily employ logic when it came to making judgements. And I had interrupted her flow.

  She started tearing viciously at the lettuces. I reached across for the watercress and started picking it over. If I waited, perhaps she would start again.

  She did; but not as I’d expected.

  ‘And then there�
�s this course. These students, I mean. It was all wrong from the start. All that hostility. I know Nyree was responsible for most of it, but no one seemed to want to be part of a group. All you individuals going in separate directions. Not you especially – you don’t even want to be a writer. But no one’s trying to help anyone else like they do in other groups – it’s all self, self, self. I thought things might change after Nyree’s death. I suppose they did. For the worse. Fancy, Sophie, threatening to sue because there wasn’t a teacher. And now –’ she turned the tap on – ‘now here they are wanting a barbecue tonight. I ask you, a barbecue. No one wants to prepare it, of course, because somehow they’ll all be too busy preparing their piece for tonight.’

  ‘Are they going to get one?’

  ‘They are not! Salad and Sainsbury’s flans, that’s what they’re getting, and ice cream to follow. Full stop. I’m supposed to do the lunch tomorrow – that’s part of the contract, that and the first supper. And I suppose I’m being a bit ungracious not wanting to do more.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve had more than enough to put up with. Any idea who fingered Naukez, by the way? Since it wasn’t me.’

  She shook her head. ‘All they’d say was they wanted to ask him some questions. Sophie, what shall I do?’

  ‘Trust Chris. He’s got to investigate, because if he didn’t he’d be in the shit. But he won’t accuse anyone falsely. He wants to find Kate. He won’t mess around trying to frame an innocent man.’

  Shazia nodded, and then seemed to go up a gear: ‘What d’you think you’re doing with that watercress? You’ll get your dressings wet.’

  ‘Only one cut. I can stick another plaster on it. And I shall get it wet anyway when I was my hair – I mean, look at it!’

  She looked: she didn’t try to pretend it was pretty sight. She burrowed in a drawer. ‘Better use these and keep the dressing dry, if you ask me.’ She passed a wad of thin polythene gloves stapled together at the wrist. ‘Tape them on: there’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.’

  I nodded. I tore one free, put it on and started on the watercress. It made a fiddly job fiddlier, but perhaps she was right.

  ‘Thanks, Sophie,’ she said, as I rinsed a colanderful under the tap. ‘But you’re supposed to be washing your hair, remember – and you’ve already prepared one meal. Mostly on your own. It won’t take me long to finish this lot.’

  I tore off another glove, but she picked up the rest and thrust them at me. ‘Go on, take them all – they’re not very strong.’

  I managed to shower and wash my hair without soaking through the dressing, but drying my hair was tricky. I had to use the wrong hand for the dryer because the cable pressed to hard against the cut, and I kept blowing hot air not at my hair but down my back and on my breasts. If only Courtney – but if I thought about him I might start to cry again.

  I was sitting naked on my bed wondering how long make-up might stay on in the heat when someone tapped on the door. I slung my dressing gown on and held it round me while I opened the door. I didn’t want to embarrass any passing policeman.

  But it wasn’t Chris. It was Hugh.

  My dressing gown fell open of its own accord. His shirt and trousers took a couple of minutes of delightful fumbling. He’d even brought condoms – had intended, perhaps, a pastoral seduction under some Eyre Park trees.

  But a bed, even the hard, narrow variety, was probably more comfortable.

  OK, it was lust. But it was very high-quality lust.

  He was a considerate and expert lover, as careful not to assault my damaged places as he was to give pleasure to the others. Perhaps the earth didn’t move for either of us, but there was a sense that it might next time. We sat naked on the floor while we recovered: it was too hot and sticky to lie in each other’s arms, but he would touch my hair or my skin, very gently, from time to time, as if in appreciation. I felt like a contented cat, and smiled back at him, wondering whether it was too soon to prompt that beautiful body of his back into action again. I suspected it wouldn’t take much coaxing. For the moment, however, we played an interesting game of tracing into all sorts of delightful places little trickles of each other’s sweat.

  And then he saw the Financial Times open on the desk. His Financial Times. His glance was uncomfortably hard.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ he said, starting his car and turning on the air conditioning, ‘is why no one thought of asking me. A medical problem and they send for Gimson. All these Asians sloshing round the country kidnapping my woman and no one bothers to mention it to me. Damn it it all, I’ve more information on Southeast Asia in my office than the average library.’

  My woman. I wasn’t sure about that. Not yet. But it sounded good, and I liked the tenderness with which he touched my hand as he said it.

  ‘They think of you as a poet, not an expert on international relations,’ I said mildly, waving to the PC on duty by the gates.

  Hugh prepared to pull away, but the PC flagged us down and walked round to my side. I looked for the window winder but, of course, the windows descended electronically in response to a touch on another button.

  ‘Just wondered how you were, miss. You looked a bit of a mess last night.’

  ‘Fine. All patched up now.’ I raised my hand as evidence. ‘Look, some of your colleagues have the idea that messages are best transmitted mystically between those concerned. I’ve told everyone I could think of I’m going into the city with Mr Brierley to look up material on our Asian friends, but now I’m telling you too, and if Chris Groom dashes round like a headless chicken when he finds I’ve left Eyre House, you will tell him I’m OK, won’t you?’

  He gave a half-salute. Hugh put the car into gear, and I screamed, ‘Sidney! Hugh, stop! I think that was Sidney!’

  Hugh stopped.

  We all threshed around in the undergrowth for four or five minutes, but in vain. Possibly it hadn’t been Sidney at all. Or possibly all our efforts had merely scared him away.

  We were both silent as we set off again. Apart from my sneezes and wheezes: a hedgerow is an excellent source of allergens.

  ‘You really do care for that rat, don’t you?’ said Hugh eventually.

  ‘I suppose I do. Funny really – I’m not so keen on animals in general. But despite his smell, he has a certain charm. And I suppose I see myself as his guardian in Kate’s absence.’

  ‘Absence or –’

  ‘Absence. I still think she’s alive. Hope, perhaps, would be a better word. Hence, after all, this expedition to town on an afternoon that could be much more pleasantly spent elsewhere.’

  He took my hand again.

  ‘Sophie, I have an air conditioned office. And very thick carpets.’

  I was grateful for both.

  I was sitting on the floor of Hugh’s office, surrounded by old-fashioned paper files. He was at his desk – a suitably huge executive one – poring over computer files, tutting occasionally in irritation.

  It was a very smart office. I’m used to William Murdock, remember, probably the most grossly underfunded college in the country. We have a foyer, true, and a reception desk, but there the resemblance ends. Our potted plants expired years ago, under a steady deluge of empty Coke cans and fag ends. Hugh’s flourished almost as thickly as the carpet. It comes to something, too, when the corridors of your companion’s office are infinitely better carpeted and furnished – pictures on the wall that might well be original, and none of them covered in graffiti – than your staffroom. And there was none of the tedious business of hunting for your key – no, everything done by electronics. Hugh’s personal sanctum opened to the sound of his voice.

  More plants, vertical blinds, furniture that looked as if it might be wood. And space. At William Murdock we’d have had to fit six or eight people into the room: Hugh was able to work in splendid isolation. What did disconcert me a bit was the way he swept a couple of things from his desk before I could see them; but I suppose that he didn’t yet know me well enough to tr
ust me absolutely, and if there was money to be made in exports, there was no doubt money to be lost, too.

  Eventually he poured two plastic beakers of water from a chiller and came to join me. He pulled me to my feet and led me to the air-conditioner vent. The current was strong enough to ruffle our hair, and he lifted and played with a tendril from near my ear. But it seemed we were to talk business for a while. I would have to try very hard to concentrate.

  ‘Recap,’ he said. ‘Just what do we know?’

  I ticked off the items on my fingers. Japanese visitors to our relaxation class. Japanese abductors who were courteous to the sick. Less polite visitors (possibly Vietnamese?) who’d been rude to me and Shazia. Kenji’s sudden inadequacy. (‘Why not phone him from here?’ Hugh put in.) Nyree’s husband, about whom I knew little except that he’d been a diplomat who liked his golf.

  At this point Hugh abandoned my hair and reached for his jacket. But he didn’t put it on.

  ‘Were are you going?’

  ‘We. We’re going to Eyre House, of course. For our supper and the exciting students’ reading. They tell me there’ll be a party afterwards.’

  ‘Hugh? Why now?’ What I wanted to say was what my body was already saying, quite urgently. That it wanted Hugh, now.

  ‘Because I think I may have some ideas. I think I may – here, give me those papers. Did you keep them in order?’ He started to stuff them back into the filing cabinet.

  ‘I think so.’ I padded over to the computer. ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Do you know anything about golf?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. My cousin tried to teach me, but I found hunting for that stupid little ball interrupted my country walk. And I couldn’t deal with the clothes.’

  He laughed, locked the cabinet, and came back and kissed me.

  ‘Golf is as addictive as sex,’ he said, peeling off my T-shirt and undoing my bra. His shirt and trousers and my jeans rapidly joined them on the floor. Our pants entwined on the top of the pile. ‘Once you find you like it, you can’t get enough.’ He kissed my breasts, making my nipples stand to attention. ‘Like sex,’ he said, bending for his trousers again and burrowing in the pocket, ‘golf is big business. I’m into business, and thus, almost by necessity, into golf. Golf courses, to be precise.’ He pushed aside his computer and lifted me so I was sitting on the desk. ‘Hmm. Hole in one.’