Langley led him down to a car which was waiting in the street. "Doc says you're to go straight to Casualty," he said. "X-rays, or something. Dave'll take you there."
~
The car was still there when Nick came out of the hospital. For a moment he suspected that they were playing some kind of game with him, but when he asked the driver to drop him off at the end of Bagshaw Terrace there was no problem.
It was dawn and his head was buzzing from lack of sleep. Out in the fresh air, he sensed a kind of lifting feeling in his body, as if it expected him to start running. He watched the police car drive away, then took the path down to the Prom, walking as briskly as he could manage.
After a few minutes, a small dog came dashing towards him. He flinched, but it was only a portly cocker spaniel come to sniff and run away. About halfway along, he took one of the diagonal paths up through Cliff Gardens to Coastguards' Parade.
He rounded the corner of the road, turned in through the gateway and approached the house. He fumbled in the letterbox but the key was no longer hanging by its string. The police raid must have made old Jim McClennan more aware of security, Nick thought, but he didn't really believe that was the full explanation.
He knocked on the door.
After a few minutes, it opened, held by a chain. His landlord peered out. "I told you I don't like trouble," he said. "I've had enough of it, you hear?"
Nick started to speak, but was interrupted.
"You can come in and you can get your stuff and then you can leave," said McClennan. "I ain't having nothing more of this, you hear?"
He pushed the door shut, then let it swing slowly open with the chain unhooked. When Nick went in, his landlord was standing with his back to the wall, clearly ready to flee.
Nick smelt breakfast cooking somewhere in the depths of the house. He doubted that there would be any for him. He turned to the old man, and as he did so, he remembered what he must look like. It was hardly going to help him. "I've paid up to the end of the week," he said. "Just as we agreed. I've done nothing wrong."
McClennan wasn't going to be persuaded. "You go today and I keep the rest as compensation for the disturbance of my peace. I ain't going to have anything else."
There was a sound and a door opened at the far end of the hall. Jack Finnegan stood in the doorway, an apron tied at his waist. "Back then, I see," he said. "Jim giving you trouble then, is he?"
McClennan's eyes never left Nick. "He's going," he said. "Right now. He's going to pack his bags and leave. We agreed it."
Nick looked from one man to the other. He took a step towards the stairs, then stopped as Jack Finnegan spoke again. "He'll do nothing of the sort," he said. "His breakfast's here and he's paid his rent. You've got no complaints, Jim." Then he added, for Nick's sake, "He's just in a bad mood today. Always is when he's had a bad night."
Nick shook his head. He'd had enough. "I'll be out as soon as I find somewhere else," he said. "I don't want to cause any trouble."
As he reached the landing he heard a door thump shut below and then the muffled sounds of the two old men arguing in the kitchen.
Chapter 16
After tidying up the mess the police had made of his room, Nick went down for breakfast. Jim McClennan served him without a word. Nick took his time, partly because he stubbornly refused to be intimidated and partly because chewing hurt. He considered calling Caroline Betts with a new 'dietary requirement' for Betsy's party: anything, so long as he could take it through a straw.
Afterwards he went out to his VW and switched on the radio. He found a local station and waited for the news.
People passed in the street. School children, men and women heading for work or on their way to do some early shopping in town. A postman passed, with leaflets to deliver so that he had to visit even the houses with no mail today.
Eventually, the news came up and Nick listened grimly. Suzanne Carter, a thirty-four year-old divorcee, out for her regular Sunday night drink with friends at a place called Martlesham, near Woodbridge. They would normally have driven her home, but last night, for some reason they did not know, they had simply forgotten to offer. Police had confirmed that they were considering similarities between this case and that of Geraldine Wyse near Bathside, nine days earlier. They were appealing for help from the public.
Nick switched the radio off and left his car.
He walked to the end of the street, crossed Coastguards' Parade and then took one of the paths down through Cliff Gardens. About halfway down, he came to a bench and he decided to sit, looking out to sea.
If there was any connection between this Suzanne Carter and Jerry then neither Langley nor the radio report had mentioned it. Had they both known the killer? Had they known something he wanted concealed? That seemed too far-fetched for Nick to accept. Maybe he should go up to Suffolk and ask a few questions, but he was aware of how difficult that would be for someone in his position, starting from scratch. In any case, if Suzanne Carter had known Jerry, the police wouldn't have gone straight for Nick, the outsider. They would have had stronger leads to check first of all.
He'd checked a map while he was still in the car. In nine days a tramp could easily have walked as far as Martlesham. Someone who slept rough in woods or on the heath? Came across Jerry and enjoyed it so much that the next time he saw a lone woman he had struck again?
It seemed the simplest explanation, but again, why hadn't the police combed the area and found the killer? He couldn't have gone far if he was on foot.
It all seemed too easy, somehow. Nick wondered if the second televised appeal on Sunday had scared someone, for some reason. Did Jerry's killer just want it to look as if there was a serial psychopath on the loose?
There was a fundamental difference between the two murders: Langley had told Nick that this time the killer had been prepared. The first time must have been impulsive—a sudden urge, pick up the nearest weapon and do it.
This time the killer had taken his own tools for the job.
~
Everywhere he went—in the shops and in the street—people stopped and stared at his damaged features. Stubbornly, he met every look, sometimes with a smile, and they all turned away from him shocked, and maybe a little frightened.
At one of the children's homes, Nick had acquired the name 'Booky', and at another they had called him 'Bimbo'. As he walked through the streets of Bathside, he decided that now they'd have to call him 'Scarface'.
Eventually, his walk brought him past St Augustine's station and back up Station Road. He came to the bicycle shop and then to the office of Merrywell and Taylor. He suspected that he only wanted to see Karen Ferguson to shock her: some petty little revenge for the fact that she was married.
At first, he thought she wasn't there today, and he loitered just inside the door, looking at the displays. Then she stepped out from the back, in another sharp skirt-suit, blue this time, which didn't really suit her brown eyes and dark, hennaed hair.
She saw him and he smiled and then she took in the mess that his face had become and her mouth dropped open before she could check the reaction.
Immediately, he felt ashamed, guilty that he should have wanted to shock her.
"Mr Redpath," she said, rapidly recovering her composure as she came towards him. When she smiled he wondered how he could ever have believed that her friendliness last week had been anything other than genuine. "I hoped you'd return."
They sat, either side of her desk, and he watched her eyes moving across his face. "I was mugged," he said, saving her the dilemma of whether or not to comment. "Five of them. With baseball bats." He realised that he was trying to shock her again, trying to test her responses.
"Trouble seems to follow you around," she said. She seemed to sense that she didn't need to be diplomatic with him: she could risk offending him. "Are you okay there? I can get some tea."
"I'm fine," he said, then smiled, realising what a stupid thing it was to say. "I wanted to thank you for havi
ng lunch with me last week."
"My pleasure."
Suddenly they were back to agent-client politeness again. He didn't know how it had happened. He looked away.
"I've decided to move into somewhere more permanent," he said. "I haven't had much chance to look at the details you gave me, I'm afraid. I've been involved in other things."
"What sort of accommodation were you considering?"
"A bedroom, a kitchen. My own bathroom. I don't want to be stuck out in one of the new estates, or in one of the tower blocks on Ray Island Road. And not Riverside, either—too many memories."
She leaned over to the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet and he watched her as she flicked through the files.
"Here." She handed him three sheets. "My bet is the one on top."
He looked at the first sheet. It gave brief details of an end-terrace in Pattricks Road, a short walk from the office where they sat. It looked about right, although the rent was higher than he had wanted.
He looked up and she was watching him. "If you're interested," she said, "I can arrange for one of my colleagues to show you round. We have access to all three properties whenever you'd like to visit." She must have seen his expression change, because she quickly added, "It's company policy, I'm afraid. I'd show you the properties myself, but it's against the rules."
He realised he was being stupid, so he made himself smile. She was married, he reminded himself. And anyway, his taste in women hadn't been his strongest point recently. "Thanks," he said. "I understand. I'd like to see these places as soon as possible, if I could."
~
She introduced him to a young man called Clive. He had curly blond hair and a suit that was too big.
"Do you have a vehicle?" asked Clive, as they went outside. "Or shall I drive?"
They went in Clive's MG Metro, which he steered one-handed, the other resting casually on the gear stick. They went into Eastquay and looked at two flats on Church Street. Both were damp and poorly furnished, but with a little airing and warmth they would be okay. "Where would I park?"
Clive had left his car on double yellow lines. He smiled, and said, "Wherever there's a space. It's okay. Really it's okay. I have friends that live down here. Parking's no trouble at all. Have you seen the view?"
Later, they returned to Pattricks Road. It was a narrow street, opposite the park. They left the car at the bottom, close to the railway, and beyond that, the Riverside Estate where Nick had grown up. The house was right at the end of the terrace. Nick saw that it was a good deal narrower than the others in the road, as if the builders at the turn of the century had suddenly realised they were short of space and materials.
They went in through a small yard at the back where he would be able to park his car.
Inside, the place was fairly bare. A sofa and TV in the tiny living room, a table and two chairs in the dining room. The kitchen was the sort where you could stand in the middle and reach everything, which Clive insisted was a real boon. Upstairs, there was a small bathroom and a room with double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers.
Clive had been looking surreptitiously at Nick's damaged features ever since being introduced. Now, he finally said, "Look. I know I shouldn't ask, but... You look like something out of a Roger Corman movie."
Nick shrugged. "It's okay," he said. "It was a skiing accident." Clive's eyes widened. "I was out on the mountain before anyone else was up. The sun was just breaking through the peaks. I was off-piste—only for the most experienced, but I didn't care. I started the run and it was good. I was beating that mountain, I tell you. Then I heard a sound from behind me, like distant thunder. I looked over my shoulder and way up behind me there was a sheer wall of snow. An avalanche. Listen: you should never try to out-pace an avalanche, but I—"
"In September?" asked Clive.
Nick shrugged, again. "Southern hemisphere. Didn't I say?"
They went into the bedroom again and Nick went to peer out of the window into the street. He suddenly realised that this house was only a couple of streets from Ronnie Deller's place, but that shouldn't be too much of a disadvantage.
"Mrs Ferguson said this was the one for me," he said.
"Fergie said that, yuh?"
"Hmm. What do you think?"
"About?" Clive raised his eyebrows.
Nick wondered if he'd noticed something in the office. "About this place," he said. "What else?"
Clive grinned. "I think it's clearly the best of the three places you've viewed this morning. I think it has tremendous potential for a man in your position, whatever that may be. I think you should sign on the dotted line immediately. But then it's more expensive than the other two so I would say that, wouldn't I?"
They went downstairs and out by the front door. "I'll take it," said Nick. "When can I move in?"
"Tomorrow's the soonest, I'm afraid. I can have the contracts ready for you first thing. Keys on signature. Okay?"
Nick nodded, and declined a lift. They walked across to the car. "Oh yes," said Clive, just before he closed his door. "I meant to say. She's divorced. Okay?"
~
As soon as he got back to the bed and breakfast he told Jim McClennan he was leaving. "Okay if I make a 'phone call?" he added. His landlord didn't object, he just backed away down the hall to the safety of his room.
"Merrywell and Taylor, Karen Ferguson speaking. Can I help?"
"Hello," he said. "It's Nick Redpath. I just wanted to—"
"Ah, Mr Redpath. Clive told me about your visits. I'm so glad you went for Pattricks Road. I told you, didn't I? Those other two have been vacant for months. I'm sorting out the details right now." She paused, then added, "I hope you're not planning any more skiing expeditions in the near future."
"I..." He didn't know what to say.
"What time can I expect you in the morning?"
"Is nine-thirty all right? I could come later if it'd help."
"That's lovely, Mr Redpath. I'll look forward to seeing you."
"Are you free tomorrow evening? After work?"
There was a long pause. "I'm not sure," she said, eventually. "A house-warming?"
"No, no," he said. "Nothing like that. A dinner party. An old schoolfriend's birthday. I wondered if you might like to come. Of course, if—"
"Thank you," she said. "Yes. Yes, I'll come with you. What time?"
They made arrangements to meet, and it seemed unreal to Nick. When they had arranged his visit to the office for the morning she had seemed warm and enthusiastic, but for the evening it had seemed almost like making a business appointment. She had seemed more distant, wary even. On reflection, it didn't seem so odd: she would have more at stake, going to dinner with him. She was simply being cautious.
Chapter 17
Nick didn't wake until after seven.
It was the first time he'd overslept in months. His body must have been catching up from the previous night.
He rolled over onto his damaged ribs and let out a sharp gasp of pain. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. His body felt as if it had been set in concrete: every muscle stiffened up, every joint locked, every nerve ending telling his brain how much he hurt.
He fumbled for the packet of aspirins and swallowed two tablets dry. "I'm fine," he told himself, trying to summon up the willpower to move. "It's only pain."
Dressed in jeans, sweater and leather jacket, he went out into the damp morning air. It had rained overnight and the pavement was dotted with dirty puddles. He turned right at the end of the street and soon came to the junction where Coastguards' Parade and Bay Road merged. Wedged into the triangle of land between the two roads was a small green space, with the blocky, white Minesweepers' memorial in the middle. He approached it slowly, almost reluctantly.
The name he sought was exactly where he remembered it, near the top of the second column: Jack Alfred Redpath. What Nick was due to do this morning was only confirmation of what he had known, at some level, ever since he had driven back to to
wn: Bathside was in his blood. The place had changed while he'd been away, and the rate of development would probably increase as the town fought to maintain its place as a major North Sea port. But it was still his home, no matter how hard he tried to resist that conclusion.
~
Jack Finnegan had cooked him a special breakfast: bacon, sausages, two eggs, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried bread. There was so much that the plate was almost overflowing. Nick struggled through it all, although his mouth hurt too much for him to really appreciate it. By the time he had finished, he felt relieved that from tomorrow it would be cereal, toast and juice in the mornings. All this greasy food so early in the day was too much for him on a regular basis.
He went up to his room and placed his neatly folded clothes in one bag, his books in another. Downstairs, Jack was waiting to see him off. "Jim's soft at heart, really," he explained. "He said to say goodbye, but he's not a one for farewells."
Nick didn't know whether to believe him or not. "I had a great-uncle called Jack," he said. "Did I ever mention him?"
"That's nice."
There was an awkward silence, then Nick opened the door and went out. "Well, 'bye then," he said. "And thanks."
"Good luck."
He eased his bags onto the passenger seat, and then drove through town until he found a parking space in Station Road.
He entered the office of Merrywell and Taylor on the stroke of nine-thirty and Karen Ferguson waved him across to her desk. "Good morning, Mr Redpath," she said, from behind her professional smile. "Have a seat."
He sat. He wondered why she was acting so formally, and then he realised that her colleagues probably knew nothing of their date that evening. Already, although he barely knew her, he had a picture of her as a person who liked to keep her life in strict compartments: work, relationships, leisure. She valued her privacy, she liked to protect herself. He could understand that.
"Is everything all right?" he asked. "Because I just took it for granted: I've left my old lodgings already."
One More Unfortunate Page 15
