Prey to All

by Cooper, Natasha

  Crackenfield sat with a very straight back, listening. At the end, he took his pipe from the pocket of his suit jacket and held the bowl comfortably in his hand. He made no effort to fill or light the pipe.

  ‘Admirably put, Chief Inspector. But I do not understand why you have forced your way into my house, interrupting my guests’ dinner, to tell me all this.’

  ‘Because we have to talk to everyone who could have been involved in Mr Chaze’s death,’ said Femur, committing himself at a much earlier stage than Caroline thought either right or sensible.

  She saw from Crackenfield’s slack jaw and staring eyes that he was dumbfounded.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, man. Do you really think that if I had stooped to take revenge on that man for what he did to my family I would have chosen something like this?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Good God, no. Think about it, Femur. I had only to lift the telephone and talk to Central Office to have him blacklisted by the Party. I had only to talk to a journalist, and, God knows, we’ve had enough of them sniffing around since my son’s death, to have Malcolm Chaze blazoned all over the front pages as the hypocritical blackguard he was. Why should I of all people want to have him shot?’

  ‘I’d have said you had plenty of reason. Either of your two other scenarios would have involved publicity for your family and the further blackening of your son’s name.’

  ‘My son had no reputation left.’ The quietness of his voice did nothing to sweeten its bitterness. ‘He had not had any kind of public role, not even a job, for over twenty years. I am retired. My daughter lives hundreds of miles away under her married name. None of us would have been damaged by the publicity.’

  He looked at his pipe, polishing its side on his handkerchief. When he let his eyes lift again, Caroline saw that they were bleaker than ever.

  ‘It is possibly the worst, certainly I hope the last, humiliation my son has wreaked upon me that the police should come to my house to accuse me of murder.’

  A slight cough made them all look towards the door. Margaret Crackenfield stood there, with a light mackintosh over the black dress. A small suitcase stood on the floor beside her.

  ‘Margaret, have you gone mad? Our guests!’

  ‘I asked them to go. As soon as I realised what these officers had come for, it seemed best. We don’t want a horrible scene.’ She smiled first at Caroline, then at Femur. ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Margaret!’

  ‘Don’t, my dear. Let’s have some dignity.’

  ‘They have no reason to question me, Margaret. And so there is not the slightest need for this magnificent, but absurd, gesture. Take off your coat.’

  ‘It’s no gesture, John.’ She sounded very tired. ‘I did it. Or rather, I had it done.’

  The three of them stared at her.

  ‘It seemed suddenly impossible that that man should live while my son was dead.’

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Mrs Crackenfield,’ Femur said. She turned her head to smile sweetly at him again. ‘Mrs Crackenfield, I must caution you that you do not have to say …’

  ‘Yes. I know all that,’ she said, long before he had finished.

  ‘That’s quite all right, Chief Inspector. But shall we go? I am not sure quite how much more John can take.’

  ‘But why? How?’ Her husband’s big hand squeezed around the polished bowl of the pipe and he was breathing fast and hard. But there were no other signs of emotion.

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Crackenfield said almost casually, ‘I thought Hen’s dealer would probably know someone who could shoot Malcolm for me. And it wasn’t that expensive. I was surprised. I had thought I might have to sell my pearls.’ Her hand stroked them. ‘But in fact it didn’t cost much more than a month of poor Hen’s smack.’

  ‘Margaret. You’re not telling me that you—’

  ‘Bought his drugs? Oh, yes, my darling. He couldn’t afford them on benefit, and he had to have them. Methadone never worked for him. He couldn’t get it right or something. And it was better that he was happy and addicted and safe, instead of burgling and going to prison again. You know what happened to him there.’

  ‘Margaret …’

  ‘His dealer was trustworthy. Quite a nice boy. And I knew the smack would be clean this way, not cut with something lethal. It was better, my darling. It really was.’

  She left the suitcase where it was and crossed the short distance to his chair. There she took his head between her hands and kissed his domed, sweating forehead.

  ‘I think if the baby had turned out to be ours, it might have been different. There would have been something to live for, to stay out of prison for. But he wasn’t, and so we have nothing left of Hen. Georgina is safe and happy. And you’ll be all right. You don’t need me. And I could not go on living in the knowledge that Malcolm was swaggering around these streets and writing articles in The Times about the evils of drugs and drug dealers. And “everyone who cares about real justice”. I could not bear it. He had no right to live, you see.’

  She turned to smile at Caroline again. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice was remarkably steady. ‘I think we ought to go now, Sergeant Lyalt,’ she said, ‘before things are said that shouldn’t be said. Will you help me?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll help you. Come along, Mrs Crackenfield.’

  Caroline took her arm and felt her shake. Together they walked out of the room, Caroline picking up the suitcase as they passed.

  Chapter 24

  ‘And so, Trish,’ said Femur’s voice in her ear, ‘I thought it only fair to let you know that we have a confession for the Chaze killing. It had nothing to do with your inquiries into the Deborah Gibbert case. So you’re safe.’

  Trish hadn’t realised he’d known how frightened she had been.

  ‘Confessions aren’t always real,’ she said lightly, trying not to give any more away. ‘Don’t forget Deb’s mother’s.’

  ‘This one holds water all right, and it’s taking us a lot further than I’d even hoped.’

  ‘Mixed metaphors, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Not necessarily. If a boat doesn’t hold water, it can’t take you anywhere. If it does, it can. Right?’

  For a moment she thought he was insulted, then she heard the laughter and joined in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So, what have you got?’

  ‘The name of the person who put out the contract, the one who accepted it, and the go-between, who also provided a channel for the money. We’ve recovered most of that – cash, of course – and there are enough prints on the notes to make the case against all three of them as near cast-iron as your lot will ever allow.’

  My lot, thought Trish. Now I am insulted. I owe you one for that, Femur.

  ‘And was it a dealer, as you always thought?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘There was a dealer involved, yes.’

  Trish wasn’t sure what he was holding back, but she knew enough about him by now to know that she wouldn’t get any more unless he chose to give it to her, so there was no point asking.

  ‘He’s being sweated now. With luck he’ll cough and we’ll get whole chains of supply as well as all the conspirators to murder, but the dealing details will just be bunce as far as I’m concerned.’

  Trish tried to suppress her curiosity in the interests of dignity – and to pay him back for his crack about the Bar – but it was eating at her. She needed to know who had hated – or feared – Malcolm Chaze so much and why. She gritted her teeth.

  ‘It was good of you to let me know. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who it is or what the motive was?’

  ‘No.’ There was a pause before he added, ‘But you won’t have long to wait. It’ll be in the papers as soon as we go to committal. You know I can’t tell you any more just now, don’t you, Trish?’

  ‘It wasn’t either Kate Gibbert or her father, I take it?’

  ‘No. Not them.’ Trish could hear that Femur was enjoying himself, so that was the last question she’d a
sk.

  ‘Good. Well, thank you very much for letting me know. It was a kind thought.’ That was better, she decided. That really sounds as though I don’t even want to know the rest. He may not believe it, but it’s enough to save my face.

  ‘I’m curious, too, you know,’ he said suddenly. She smiled to herself, but said nothing. Let him ask. ‘Did you ever turn up anything definitive in the Deborah Gibbert case?’

  ‘You’ll see all the details on Anna Grayling’s programme. It shouldn’t be long now, because they’re starting to shoot next week.’

  ‘Fair’s fair, I suppose.’

  ‘Absolutely, Chief Inspector Femur. You have to observe your professional discretion, so do I.’

  ‘Who’ll be appearing on your friend’s programme – apart from you, of course?’

  ‘You may be a trained interrogator, but I think I’m probably proof against your probing,’ Trish said, with a laugh that was supposed to conceal her continuing anxiety for Deb and Kate.

  They were no longer Trish’s responsibility, but she couldn’t stop thinking about them. She’d already taken far too much time away from her own work, and as soon as Anna’s bank had stopped threatening her and Deb’s solicitors had briefed one of the best silks to handle her appeal, Trish had handed over all her information and intuitions and picked up her own practice again. Dave would probably never forgive her for the risks she’d taken with that.

  Phil Redstone’s hostility worried her less than Dave’s. Even though she’d made it clear that she wasn’t acting for Deb in any capacity and had refused to take any public part in Anna’s film, Phil was badmouthing her all over the Temple. That was a pain, but she didn’t think he carried enough weight to do her any real damage.

  ‘Probably,’ Femur said, sounding much more friendly than Trish would have expected. But then Ian Whatlam’s death hadn’t been one of his cases, so he had no particular axe to grind. ‘Well, good luck with the programme.’

  ‘Thank you. I expect we’ll meet again one of these days.’

  ‘I hope so – at least so long as it’s a social meeting. I don’t want you on any more of my murder cases, Ms Maguire.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to keep out of your way next time, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘You do that. Goodbye. And congratulations – if they’re in order. I rather suspect they will be. I’ve sometimes wished I had you on my team.’

  He didn’t wait for a comment, and Trish was left to wonder just how much he had picked up of the supposedly secret information Anna was going to use in her film.

  Trish put down the phone and turned back to her cooking. George was due any minute and there were still things to be done. She checked through what she’d achieved so far. The flowers were already arranged on the table and the candles waited to be lit. The champagne was chilling, and the oysters were ready opened on their beds of cracked ice, with tasteful trails of seaweed decorating the edges. Buying the seaweed had been more laborious and expensive than almost anything else, but the more difficult it had become, the more determined she had been to get it.

  The whole dinner was a cliché, a kind of seducer’s Valentine’s Day dinner, but George shared enough of her sense of humour to appreciate it. It was important to have a joke going if she were to show him, as she wanted, that she was back – properly back and undistracted by Anna, Deb, or even Kate. George’s mask of interest and support had cracked only once more, but Trish now knew just how distracted she had been. And she wanted to make it right. Making him laugh was probably the best way of doing that.

  His key grated in the lock and she turned away from the elegant table to see a huge bunch of dark-red roses advancing into the room over a pair of long, sturdy grey-flannel legs. So, their minds were still moving in the same direction. As Trish laughed, George looked round the flowers.

  ‘I just wanted to say sorry for being so childish,’ he said. Trish moved aside to show him her gesture. He put down the flowers and reached for her.

  Later, when they’d eaten the oysters and drunk most of the champagne, he raised the subject of Anna’s film himself.

  ‘In fact,’ Trish said, reaching for the bottle, ‘I’m not going to have anything to do with it.’

  The sudden anxiety in his eyes made her feel maternal.

  ‘Not because I don’t think you could cope,’ she said, grinning at him, ‘but because I’ve got too much work, and I don’t want to muddy my professional reputation with this kind of thing. I’ve given Anna everything I’ve found out, so it’s her job now. And it’s one she’s very good at.’

  ‘Do you know who she’s got to appear?’

  ‘She’s done fantastically well. The appalling Dr Foscutt has agreed to speak on camera, admitting that he had no idea of the interaction of grapefruit juice and terfenadine at the time, which …’

  ‘Which is fair, isn’t it? I mean, not many people knew then.’

  ‘Right. But what wasn’t fair was ignoring the information when it did come to light.’

  ‘That isn’t a crime, though.’

  Trish wrinkled her nose. ‘Maybe not. But I think he was grossly negligent, both in his treatment of the old man and the way he behaved to Deb. If we could only have proved that he did at some stage give Ian Whatlam astemizole we might be able to get him charged with perjury, but I can’t see it happening now.’

  ‘So he’ll get away scot-free?’

  Satisfaction made Trish’s finger ends tingle as she thought of her most recent conversation with Adam. He might once have believed his wife guilty, but he was making up for it now.

  ‘Not completely. Deb’s husband has made an official complaint to the General Medical Council. It may not stick and the frightful Foscutt probably won’t come before the disciplinary committee until after Deb’s appeal’s been heard, but it does mean that he’ll experience some titchy part of the misery he visited on her and her family.’

  ‘Revenge?’ George said lightly.

  ‘Oh, yes. I may have learned to control my vehemence,’ Trish said, raising her glass in a toast, ‘but I haven’t lost one scruple of my rage. I want him punished, and if making him live in anxiety about his professional future is the only way, that’ll do. His mistakes caused appalling misery and I don’t think he’d have made them if he hadn’t let himself hate Deb. If there hadn’t been any malice in what he did, I wouldn’t be so angry. But I think there was, and so I think he ought to pay.’

  George was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t read. She hoped he wasn’t preparing a little lecture about the illegitimacy of vengeance.

  ‘What?’

  A slow smile revealed the man she’d always known he was, even when he retreated behind one of his disapproving masks.

  ‘Don’t go soft on me, Trish,’ he said seriously. ‘I know your rage scares me sometimes, but it’s part of you. I can cope with it. And I couldn’t cope with knowing I’d made you pretend to be less than you are. OK?’

  She let the reassurance spread its warmth up and down her spine, freeing muscles and feelings that she hadn’t even known were constricted.

  ‘OK, George.’

  Epilogue

  For the moment there was peace. Millie and her friend Steph had been persuaded to play up in her room, well away from Marcus’s sarcastic tongue. Deb had given him the new ointment for his hands and it seemed to be helping. The awful rash had first appeared in the week after her release, and it had got worse over the two years since then. Everyone had told her that her return was the miracle her whole family had been praying for. Marcus’s hands told the true story.

  He was sitting at the dining table, opposite Louis, quietly doing his homework. Deb and Adam were sharing the sofa and the newspaper, which neither of them had had time to read that morning. Adam reached out a hand.

  Deb put down the foreign news and took it, trying to feel what she knew he wanted to give her.

  The old gas fire in front of her was sputtering. It only just gave out enough heat, and it
made the small untidy room stuffy. She glanced at her watch.

  Adam must have seen the movement, because he let go of her hand, carefully smiling at her before he went back to the sports pages. He was a good man. She knew he’d not found it easy to have her back. Life was better now than it had been just after her release, but there were still times when they didn’t know what to say to each other, or how to be easy together. Sometimes when she saw him bracing himself against the irritable outburst he knew she was about to produce, she hated herself for making his life so hard. At other times she hated him for not understanding how difficult it was to come back from where she’d been.

  Occasionally, when the children were all out or sleeping over with friends, they tried to make love, but it was hard. Maybe they expected too much, or maybe they just didn’t trust each other enough yet. Still, they were beginning to be able to achieve these odd casual caresses, a light brushing against each other in the kitchen, even a kiss sometimes.

  Deb smiled, almost loving him, just as the phone began to ring. Marcus flung down his pen, shouting, ‘How am I supposed to get anything done in this place? It’s like Piccadilly Circus. If you two had the slightest interest in my future you’d arrange a quiet room where I could work in peace. Or let me go and live with Aunt Cordelia as she wants me to.’

  He’s only eleven, thought Deb. What will he be like in five years’ time? And why can’t Cordelia leave us alone and stop making my life so bloody hard? Hasn’t she seen me punished enough yet?

  Deb caught sight of Louis’s scared face and tried to smile. The phone was still ringing. She hoped it wasn’t Cordelia at the other end, pretending to try to make peace so that she could have another opportunity to grind Deb’s face in the mud. On the other hand, it might be Kate. Deb reached for the phone, hearing Adam say firmly, ‘You’re down here with the rest of us, Marcus, because you made Millie cry by sneering at her game with Steph. If you’d treated them properly, they’d be down here, and you would be upstairs in your room out of earshot. Until you can learn to be kinder, Marcus, you’ll find yourself having this kind of trouble all the time.’