A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  Suddenly she was crying. The beautiful face didn’t alter but two large tears sprang from her eyes and rolled down over her cheeks. Kate had an impulse to move along the sofa and enfold mother and child in her arms, but resisted it. The action might be resented, even repulsed. How difficult it was, she thought, to make a simple response to distress.

  She said: “Try not to worry, we’ll find him.”

  “But you think he could be with Ashe, don’t you? You think that’s where he’s gone.”

  “We don’t know. It’s possible. But we will find him.”

  She went with them to the door. She said: “I don’t want Ashe here. I don’t want him near my children.”

  Kate said: “He won’t be. Why should he come here? But keep the door on the chain, and if he does get in touch, ring us at once. Here’s the number.”

  She stood looking after them, child on hip, as the car moved away.

  In the car Piers said: “So you think Cole has really gone to look for Ashe, without telling anyone, without ringing the police?”

  “Oh yes, that’s where he’s gone. He heard about Ashe on the eight o’clock news and then left. He’s gone to try a little private redemption again, God help him.”

  They stopped outside the village and Kate rang to report to Dalgliesh. He said: “Hold on a moment.” She heard the rustle of a map being opened. “Banyard Court was just north of Ottley Village, wasn’t it? So he and Ashe started out from there or nearabouts. Assume that they cycled between twenty and thirty miles to get to their special place. Up to four hours cycling, coming and going. Tough, but it’s possible. Better take a thirty-mile radius. There isn’t much wooded country except for Rendlesham and Tunstall forests. If his sister’s right and he didn’t like enclosed spaces, he’d probably head for the coast. Stretches of it are desolate enough. Start the helicopter search at first light and concentrate on the coast. I’ll see you at the hotel by ten tonight.”

  Kate told Piers: “He’s coming down.”

  “Why, for God’s sake? Suffolk’s being co-operative. We’ve got it all organized.”

  “I suppose he wants to be there at the end.”

  “If there is an end.”

  “Oh there’ll be an end. The question is what and where.”

  6

  That morning they slept late, each cocooned in a sleeping-bag, side by side but not touching. Ashe woke first. He was at once instantly alert. He could hear beside him her soft regular breathing, broken by low mutters and little snorts. He imagined that he could smell her, her body, her breath. There came into his mind the thought that he could release his arm and stretch over to clamp a hand over that half-open mouth and silence it for ever. He indulged the fantasy for a few minutes, then lay rigid, waiting for the first light. It came at last and she stirred and turned her face towards him.

  “Is it morning?”

  “Yes, it’s morning. I’ll get the breakfast.”

  She wriggled out of her sleeping-bag and stretched.

  “I’m hungry. Doesn’t the morning smell wonderful here! The air never smells like this in London. Look, I’ll get breakfast. You’ve done all the work so far.”

  She was trying to sound happy, but there was something false in her over-bright voice.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  There must have been an insistence in his voice for she didn’t persevere. He lit two candles and then the stove, then opened a tin of tomatoes and one of sausages. He was aware of her eyes, anxious and questioning, following his every move. They would eat and then he must get away from her. He would go to his own place among the reeds. Even Coley had never followed him there. He had to be alone. He had to think. They spoke little during the meal; afterwards she helped him wash the plates and mugs in the water. Then he said, “Don’t follow me. I won’t be long,” and went out through the kitchen door.

  He pushed his way through the bushes to the familiar path leading towards the distant sea. The track was narrower even than the first. He had almost to grope his way, pushing the reeds apart, feeling them stiff and cold against his palms. The ridge wound as he remembered it, now firm and lumpy, now grassy and starred with a few daisies, now squelchy under his feet so that he was afraid it wouldn’t hold his weight. But at last it ended. Here was the grassy knoll he remembered. There was just room for him to sit, knees bent against his chest, arms tight around them, an inviolable ball. He closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sounds, his own breathing, the eternal whispering of the reeds, the far-off rhythmic moaning of the sea. For a few minutes he sat absolutely still, his eyes closed, letting the tumult which possessed his mind and body subside into what he thought of as peace. But now he had to think.

  He had made a mistake, the first since he had killed his aunt. He should never have left London. It was a bad mistake but it needn’t be fatal. The decision to go, the hurried preparations, persuading Octavia, the journey itself—what had it all amounted to but panic? And he had never panicked before. But it could be put right. The police would have found the body by now and they would know that it was murder. Someone would tell them that she had been left-handed—that bitch Buckley, for one. But he couldn’t be the only person who hadn’t known it. The police would surely reason that she had been killed to make them think that she had murdered Aldridge and done away with herself out of remorse or guilt, or because she could no longer live with the horror of what she’d done. And that alone should be enough to put him in the clear. He had an alibi for the Aldridge killing, he wasn’t a suspect. Why should he kill Carpenter? He had no need to set up a second victim to divert suspicion. There was no suspicion. Whoever had killed Aldridge, he was in the clear.

  So they had to go back. They would do so openly. Once they were on the road he would ring Pelham Place and explain what had happened, that they were now on their way back but had lost the bike and been marooned. The story was true; it could all be verified. And he hadn’t left London without an explanation. They’d told Buckley that they were planning a short break from London, from the trauma of Aldridge’s murder. There at least he hadn’t make a mistake. This had been no unexplained flight. The story held together.

  But there was something more. He needed an alibi for the Carpenter murder. If he could persuade Octavia to give him that, to say that they had been together in her flat, then nothing and no one could touch him. And Octavia would do what he wanted, say what he told her to. What had happened between them last night, that coupling which he had dreaded but had known would have to happen, had bound her to him for ever. He’d get his alibi. She wouldn’t renege on him now. And he needed her for more than that. Without her he couldn’t get at the money. More than ever the marriage was necessary, and as soon as possible. Three-quarters of a million, and the house, which must be worth another half-million at least. And hadn’t that solicitor said something about life assurance? How could he ever have thought of killing her? It had never been a serious option, not now—perhaps it wouldn’t be for months, even years. But as they had lain, side by side but distanced, he had pictured her death, her body weighted with old cans filled with stones so that it sank beneath the reeds and was lost for ever. No one would find it, not in this desolate place. But his mind had quickly seized on the objection. If they did find her, the heavy tins slung round her body would prove it was murder. Better simply to drown her, to hold her head under the water and then push her, face downwards, out among the reeds. Even if she were found what would the police have but a drowned body? It could have been an accident, or suicide. He could return alone to London today and say that they had parted on the first day, quarrelled, that she had taken the bike and left him.

  But he knew that it was all a fantasy. He needed her alive. He needed that marriage. He needed the money, money that could make money, wealth which would wipe out all the humiliations of the past and make him free. They would go back today.

  And then he saw the hands. They moved like a shoal of pale fishes stretching out towa
rds him through the reeds. But the reeds entangled them and held them back. There were forgotten hands and the hands he remembered too well. Hands that thumped and punched and wound belts lovingly through their fingers, over-busy hands that tried to be tender and made his nerves creep, exploring hands—soft, moist, or hard as rods—that came under the bedclothes at night, hands over his mouth, hands moving about his rigid body, doctors’ hands, social workers’ hands, the schoolmaster’s hands with their square white nails and the hair like silk threads on the back of the fingers. That is how he thought of him, the schoolmaster, nameless, the one he had stayed with the longest.

  “Sign here, boy, this is your savings book. Half of your local-authority pocket money should be put by, not squandered.” Printing his name carefully, aware of those critical eyes. “Garry? That isn’t a name. It’s spelt with one r—it’s short for Gareth.”

  “That’s how it is on my birth certificate.”

  His birth certificate. A short certificate. No father named. One of that official file which, growing by the year, was the record that he existed. He had said: “I like to be called Ashe.” He was called Ashe. That was his name. He needed no other.

  And with the names came the voices. Uncle Mackie, who wasn’t an uncle, roaring at his mother while he watched, and heard and crouched in the corner, waiting for the blows.

  “Either that fucking kid goes or I go. You take your choice. Him or me.”

  He had fought Uncle Mackie like a wild cat, scratching, kicking, spitting, tearing at his hair. He had left his marks on that bastard.

  And now the voices filled the air, drowning even the rustling of the reeds. The worried voices of social workers. The determinedly cheerful voice of yet another foster parent hoping to cope. The schoolmaster had thought that he could cope. There were things she had wanted from the schoolmaster: to copy how the family spoke, to watch how they ate, how they lived. He remembered the smell of freshly washed linen as he got into bed, or pulled a clean shirt over his head. One day he would be rich and powerful. There were things it was important to know. Perhaps he should have stayed longer with the schoolmaster, taking those examinations which were supposed to be so vital. They wouldn’t have been difficult; none of the work at school was difficult. He heard again the schoolmaster’s voice: “The boy is obviously intelligent. An IQ well above the normal. He needs discipline, of course, but I think I’ll be able to make something of him.” But the schoolmaster’s house had been almost the worst of all his prisons. In the end he had needed to get away and the going had been easy. He didn’t smile, but inwardly he relished the memory of Angela’s screams, her mother’s appalled face. Did they really think he wanted to fuck their stupid po-faced daughter? He had had to take gulps of the sherry in the dining-room before he could make himself do it. He had needed drink then, but he didn’t need it now. That one episode had taught him that drink was dangerous. To need alcohol was as fatal as to need people. He remembered the frantic telephone calls, the social workers asking why he’d done it, the sessions with the psychiatrist, Angela’s mother weeping.

  And then there had been Banyard Court and Coley. It was Coley who had shown him the reed beds, Coley who spoke little and who at first had made no demands, who could cycle for twenty-five miles without getting tired, who knew about making fires and cooking a meal out of tins. But in the end he had been the same as all the others. Ashe remembered their conversation, sitting outside the cottage looking out over the reeds towards the sea.

  “You’ll be sixteen in three months and out of care. I thought I might look for a flat to rent, perhaps somewhere near Ipswich. Or maybe I could find a country cottage. You could look for a job and we could live together, just as friends, just as we are now. And you could make a life for yourself.”

  But he had a life. He had had to get rid of Coley. And Coley, too, had gone. Suddenly there came over him a wash of self-pity. If only they would leave him alone. Nothing he’d ever done would have been necessary if only they’d left him alone.

  It was time to go back, back to the cottage, back to Octavia, back to London. She would give him an alibi for the Carpenter murder, they would marry, he would be rich. With a clear two million—and it must surely be that—everything was possible.

  And then he heard it, the last voice, his aunt’s voice, shouting at him across the wilderness of reeds.

  “Go away? What d’you mean, you want to go away? Go where for Christ’s sake? Who’ll have you except me? You’re mad. Fucking crazy. Don’t you know that by now? That’s why they all chucked you out after a couple of weeks. And what’s so bloody wrong with this place? You get your food, clothes, a roof. You get your presents, the camera, that bloody Kawasaki. That cost a bomb. And all I ask is what any man who was half a man would be glad to give. Plenty are, and they pay good money for it.”

  The voice went on, cajoling, insinuating, shrieking. He put his hands over his ears and squeezed himself into a tighter ball. After a few minutes the voice stopped, cut off as, with that one final slash, he had thought to cut it off for ever. But the anger remained. Thinking of her, making himself remember, he fuelled it so that, when he rose to go, he carried it back with him to the cottage like a burning coal in his breast.

  7

  Octavia watched him until he was out of sight, swallowed up by the reeds, then passed through the cottage and stood looking across the thirty feet of water towards the path leading to the wood. She could see the cluster of trees in the distance and, when the sun suddenly broke through, thought she could glimpse the gold of the wig dangling from the bough like an exotic bird. The trees seemed very far away and she felt for the first time a longing to feel the strength of their boughs above and around her, to be free of this wilderness of hissing green. The wind was rising now in erratic gusts and she could see the sluggish surface of the water beginning to crease. The motorcycle must have leaked some oil or petrol, which moved on the surface in patterns of iridescent colour. The wind strengthened. The sibilant rustling of the reeds rose to a crescendo and, as she watched, they bent and swayed and swept in great circles of changing light. She stood there and thought of the night that had passed, the chilly morning.

  Was that all there was to it? Had that really been love? She wasn’t sure how she had pictured their first love-making except that they would be lying entwined together, every inch of skin yearning for the touch of the other’s body. Instead it had been as impersonal as a medical examination. He had said, “It’s too cold to undress,” and they had taken off the minimum of clothes, without helping or looking at each other, without loving ceremony. And not once during that brief, almost brutal taking had he kissed her. It was as if he couldn’t bear the touch of her lips; any intimacy, any lewdness was possible, but not that. But it would be better next time. He was worried, they had been uncomfortable and cold. She couldn’t give up loving because their first night had been less wonderful than she had imagined. And the day had been happy, exploring the cottage together, arranging their provisions on the shelves, playing at keeping house. She loved him. Of course she loved him. If she deserted him now—and for the first time she thought of it as a desertion—what would become of her?

  And then she heard it, even above the rustling of the reeds. Someone was coming up the path towards her. No sooner had her ears detected that first soft footfall than he appeared out of the reeds like an apparition, black, tall and slim, not young but not yet middle-aged. He was wearing a belted jacket open at the neck to show a thick high-necked jersey. She stared across at him, but she wasn’t afraid. She knew at once that he came meaning no harm.

  He called softly across to her: “Where is he? Where’s Ashe?”

  “In his special place, among the reeds.” She jerked her head towards the sea.

  “When did he go? How long?”

  “About ten minutes. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Cole. Look, you’ve got to come away. Now, before he returns. You mustn’t stay with him. You know the police are l
ooking for him, that he’s wanted for murder?”

  “If it’s about my mother, we’ve seen the police. He hasn’t done anything. We’re going back anyway when he’s ready.”

  Suddenly he flung off the jacket, pulled the jersey over his head and plunged into the water. She gazed at him in amazement as he swam vigorously towards her, his eyes still fixed on her face. Gasping, he staggered up the bank, and instinctively she ran to his aid and held out a hand.

  He said: “Swim across now with me. You can do it. It’s nothing, only about thirty feet. I’ll help you. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got a bicycle hidden by the road. You can ride on the crossbar and we’ll be in the nearest village before he’s after us. You’ll be cold and wet for a time, but anything’s better than staying here.”

  She cried: “You’re mad. Why should I come? Why?”

  He had moved closer to her now as if to compel her by the force of his presence. The water ran from his hair and over his face. He was shivering violently. His white vest clung to his body and she could see the pulsing of his heart. They were almost hissing at each other.

  He said: “Janet Carpenter is dead. Murdered. Ashe did it. Please, you must come away. Now. Please, he’s dangerous.”

  “You’re lying. It isn’t true. The police sent you to trick us.”

  “They don’t know I’m here. No one knows.”

  “How did you know where to find us?”

  “I brought him here. It was a long time ago. This was our special place.”

  She said: “You’re Coley.”

  “Yes. But it doesn’t matter who I am. We can talk later. Now you must come. You can’t stay with him. He needs help but you can’t give it. Neither of us can.”

  She almost cried out, “No, no,” but she was trying to convince herself, not him. The power of him, the urgency of that dripping body, the pleading in his eyes were compelling her towards him.