‘No, you can not see them. I burnt them. No one will ever see them! You know what I used to call him?’ A lump formed in her throat. ‘My little soldier. God help me. And he does that to his own mother.’
Leo said, ‘Mrs Tulley, it’s just possible Trevor may have taken his own life; was there any reason —?’
‘He wanted to punish me!’ she cried. ‘Why do you think he’s done it? He wants people to say I killed him. Why? What had I done? I loved him. How could he do something awful like this to me?’
‘The note,’ Macrae said, losing patience with this mountain of self-pity.
She felt inside her apron pocket. Wordlessly she handed it to him.
There were no filial sentiments. It was terse and to the point. ‘By the time you read this, Mother, I will be dead. Tell the coroner it was Duggie’s fault. T. Tulley.’
‘He doesn’t blame you at all,’ Macrae said. ‘He blames this person Duggie. Who is he?’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Do I think what?’
‘That he’s not blaming me?’
Her look was pathetic but Macrae was past caring.
‘Who is Duggie?’
‘Why do you think Trevor hid the note, then?’
‘Who is he?’
‘Don’t shout. Don’t you understand how I feel?’
Leo said, ‘It’s possible Trevor may still be alive. It’s possible we may be able to save him if we act quickly.’
‘I wish it was me,’ she said. ‘I wish I was dead.’
Macrae thrust his large head close to her nose. ‘Madam, I will ask you just once more: who is this Duggie person?’
It was like throwing a glass of cold water in her face. She recoiled, then said, ‘Duggie is Douglas, Trevor’s friend. Douglas Smith. He’s the porter at Rosemount.’
‘That Douglas! Do you know where he lives?’
She shook her head.
‘Or his telephone number?’
‘Trevor might have it among his things.’
‘OK, you look for it.’ Macrae turned to Leo. ‘You get on the blower to the managing agents.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s just possible someone might still be there.’
Leo dialled but the number rang and rang.
‘That woman,’ Leo said. ‘The Scottish one. Miss McIntyre.’
‘No, no, not McIntyre. McDonald?’
‘No, it wasn’t McDonald, guv’nor.’
‘Let’s get over there.’
Alice had not eaten since morning and was waiting for Dory. It was a strange role reversal. Since she was fifteen and had gone to work in a factory making tennis shoes, she had brought home money for the family; she had supplied food.
She was hungry, but fortunately she was not thirsty. She had known early on that if she were to remain in the tool-shed all the time she would die of heat exhaustion, so she had asked Dory to leave the door unlocked and was able to open it when she knew the roof was deserted, which was most of the time. She had even been able to wash away the encrusted blood between her legs with the water from the hosepipe.
It was surprisingly easy to monitor the arrival of people on the roof. The door from the fire-escape squeaked, the elevator gates were noisy, feet made crunching noises on the concrete slabs.
Then, if she was outside, she could watch from behind one of the huge airducts, to see who was coming.
During the time she had been on the roof, which was now more than thirty-six hours, only Dory and the old man looking for birds had come.
It had been a strange time. She had thought a great deal of her family. In her mind’s eye she could see the post arrive each morning in the broken-down Manila suburb in which they lived — and nothing from her. She knew how much they depended upon her. To get them the money that would make all the difference to their lives she needed a proper job.
Dory, who was her mother and her father in this strange land - just as she, Alice, was the mother and father to her own family - would help. She had said as much.
Now she heard Dory. She heard the lift gates open and shut.
She heard the door to the roof open. She emerged from her dark confinement like some prehistoric troglodyte into the warm, murky, evening.
Then she paused. The footsteps were louder than Dory’s. A man cleared his throat. She slid back softly into the shed and closed the door. She wriggled back into her lair, a blanket laid behind a pile of bagged compost.
The steps came towards the toolshed. The door was opened. She put her head on her hands and closed her eyes. She heard tools being moved. Then the door was closed again.
After a few moments she knelt and looked through one of the openings between the warped planks and saw the figure of a man leaning against the parapet. In the dusk she could not make out his features but she knew he was not the old man.
She heard the elevator gates open and close once more. And another series of steps.
Trevor stood at the parapet and watched Ralph come towards him. He was dressed in his work clothes for hot weather: vest, jeans, dirty sneakers.
What could Duggie have seen in him?
That was the deepest part of the humiliation he had suffered, being chucked over for this dirty, uneducated, horrible butch bastard.
‘You said on the mobile you wanted to see me?’ Ralph said.
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve come over all the way from Chelsea. I could have been home by now.’
‘It’s good of you.’
‘What’s all this about complaints? No one’s complained about the flowers to me except that old shit whatshisname.’
‘Mr Pargeter.’
‘Yeah.’
Trevor had rehearsed the dialogue and the coming action.
‘So what’s it all about, then?’ Ralph said.
Trevor inspected his face with the seventies sideburns. Duggie had once said he hated hairy men and Trevor had shaved his entire body and afterwards always used a depilatory.
Ralph was hairy. He was like an orang-utan with his gingerish hair. Trevor would have bet he had hair on his shoulders.
‘Oh, no, it wasn’t Mr Pargeter who was complaining,’ Trevor said. ‘It was me.’
‘You? Complain to the managing agents? What the hell were you going to complain about?’
‘About your having an affair with Duggie.’
Ralph stared at Trevor for a moment and then said softly, ‘So that’s it.’
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘Duggie told me what a turd you were.’
‘Oh, he did?’
‘Yes. He said you came to him and cried. He said you were pathetic. You are pathetic.’
Even though Trevor had been expecting something like this, he felt the skin on his face grow red and his legs become weak with the anger of humiliation.
‘Why do you say I’m pathetic?’
‘You’ve been sucking up to Duggie. You’ve been going to him and offering him presents.’
‘So he told you.’
‘Course he told me. And he told me what an old woman you are. He told me about your mother. He said sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference between the two of you.’
‘Is that what he said?’
‘Yes that’s what he said, you turd.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t speak to me like that.’
‘I don’t give a toss what you’d rather. I’m telling you to leave Duggie alone. You understand, turd?’
‘You’re a thief.’
‘A what?’
‘You heard me. You’re a burglar. You’ve been breaking into places.’
‘What’s this? What’s this?’
‘Duggie told me.’
‘Duggie would never… never —’
‘Yes, he did. He told me you were a thief months ago. He told me you got the keys when you went into people’s flats to do their flowers. He told me you stole things.’
‘I think you’re a liar. I think you’ve made all this up to make me hate
Duggie. Well, I won’t. It doesn’t work. How do we know it wasn’t you who was the burglar. Turd.’
‘I want you to stop calling me that.’
‘Turd? You are a turd. And before I’m finished with you you’re going to wish you weren’t.’
Trevor had placed the spade by his right hand. Now he lifted it and hit Ralph on the knee.
‘Oh, Jesus!’
He hit him again, this time with the side of the spade. It sliced into his kneecap and Ralph fell.
‘Oh, God, that’s terrible!’ Ralph said. ‘Why have you done that?’
‘You called me a turd.’
‘Dear God. You mustn’t. Please… You must absolutely not…’
‘No one calls me that.’
He hit Ralph on the side of the head.
‘Mind you, it wouldn’t have mattered what you’d called me. You ruined my life. All I had was Duggie. Do you think I wanted to live with her? As long as I had Duggie I could manage.’
Ralph was struggling to rise and he hit him again on the head. He groaned and fell back sideways. Blood came out of his ear.
‘It’s not fair,’ Ralph said. ‘I only called you a —’
Trevor hit him and hit him and after a time he was still.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘MacKenzie!’ Leo said and pressed the bell. ‘That was it.’
‘Aye. Of course. I should have remembered.’
‘Yes?’ said a voice from the wall.
Leo explained who they were.
‘What do you want?’ Miss MacKenzie’s voice was cold.
‘A word with you if we may,’ Leo said.
‘You may not. I am preparing for bed. You may return in the morning.’
Macrae had had enough. The day had been hot and extremely wearing both physically and emotionally. He moved in front of Leo and placed his Ups near the microphone on the wall.
‘This is Superintendent Macrae. If you do not open this door in five seconds I shall arrest you on a charge of obstructing the police in the course of their duty. And I shall hold you in the cells at Cannon Row for the night.’
There was a buzzing noise and the main door of Rosemount clicked open. The two detectives went up in the lift.
Miss MacKenzie was at her door to meet them. She was wearing a dressing-gown and her hair was encased in a net. ‘You have taken a very high-handed attitude, Inspector, and I —’
‘Madam, your father is dead. There is nothing he can do. And if he was alive do you not think he would want justice served?’
‘Well, perhaps,’ she said grudgingly, and let them in.
‘The porter, Smith,’ Macrae began.
‘Douglas? You don’t think…?’
‘What?’
‘That he’s the burglar?’
‘It’s possible. We’re still investigating. That’s why we want to interview him. We need his address.’
‘You’d better speak to Crocker’s, the managing agents.’
‘It is night,’ Macrae said, holding himself in. ‘Even managing agents close.’
‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’
‘You’re supposed to tell us where he lives. Aren’t all tenants given his address? What do you do if you need him? If you have a flood in the middle of the night or at a weekend?’
‘Fat lot of good he’d be. But there is a telephone number.’
‘Well…’
‘Oh. All right.’ She hauled out her keys, opened a desk drawer and paged through her address book. ‘Here it is. Wait! My Christmas list!’ She fumbled in the drawer once more. ‘Yes, here we are. I send him his cheque with a Christmas card. Makes it more festive, though I’m sure I don’t know why we need to give him a present. He gets paid well enough and doesn’t do anything for it. And we have to give to the milkman and the postman and the — ’
Macrae’s face began to change colour and Leo hastily stepped forward and took the address book. He dialled the number but though he let it ring a dozen times there was no answer.
‘Let’s go round,’ Macrae said. ‘Fortescue Terrace. It’s on the other side of the Edgware Road. We can be there in five minutes.’
At the car Leo glanced across at Selbourne. He had a view of the apartment block through the trees.
‘Guv’nor! Look at this.’
Parked near the front door of Selbourne was a white van. In large lettering were the words PROGARDENS Landscaping, Patios, Terraces, etc.
They walked round the van trying the doors. It was locked. But not so the glass security door of Selbourne. That was ajar.
‘What the hell’s he doing here at this time of night?’ Macrae said.
‘Pruning?’ Leo said.
‘Don’t be daft, laddie. Let’s go up and see.’
Alice could hear him breathe. It was a draining sound, like the last water running out of a bath.
She had been crouched in her lair behind the compost bags ever since she had heard footsteps disappear and the elevator go down. That was more than five minutes ago.
She was almost catatonic. It was like the Arab again. Like a nightmare that repeats itself. All she wanted to do was run. And yet a man was dying a few yards from her.
She put her eye to the spy hole and could just make out his figure lying near the parapet. One of his legs jerked spasmodically. His foot made a rasping noise on the concrete.
She knew there was no place left for her in this building, even in this part of London. To think any different was to kid herself.
But that would mean leaving him. All right, leave him. Which was more important: her family or this bleeding hulk?
There was Dory. Dory was the diamond in the sky, the globule vivific. Dory was all she had.
She listened. The sounds of breathing had stopped, the foot was still.
Had he died?
She had seen the blows struck one after another. Raining down on him. It was wonder he had lived even this long.
His death released her from any moral action. Now she must go.
Carefully she pushed open the door. Fortunately she did not have to go past him. She decided not to look. She turned round the corner of the shed and two hands gripped her throat.
The shock caused her to cry out but it was stifled by the fingers. Her windpipe was blocked. She struggled, kicking and scratching. She tore at his face. It was like warm tripe. There were no bones. She fought silently but hopelessly, unable to breathe. She felt his knee in her groin. Red clouds gathered at the back of her eyes.
They fell together. His hands came away from her neck. She heard the blood gurgle again in his throat.
She was free of him. She ran.
She felt something sticky at the top of her thighs and stopped in the light. Blood was running down her legs. It was worse than before. She took off her pants, tore them in two, rolled up one part to make a tampon and pressed it into herself. The flow of blood stopped but she knew it was only a temporary measure.
Dory. Maybe she could find some of her mother’s tampons. Maybe she even knew of somewhere Alice could lie down. It would only be for a few hours until the bleeding stopped as it had done the first time.
She went down the fire stairs and knocked softly on Dory’s door. If her mother answered she would say… she would say she had come to the wrong flat… She knocked again. The door opened on a chain.
Dory peered up at her through the gap. ‘Go away,’ she said.
Alice examined her face. It was filled with fear and confusion and shame. It was the face of a small child.
‘Dory, please…’
‘I can’t see you any more.’
The door closed. A key was turned in the lock.
Alice heard the elevator go up to the roof. She went to the fire stairs and began the long descent to the street.
Before she had got half-way she could feel the blood trickling down her ankles.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘In the square?’ Zoe said.
‘On a bench,’ Leo said
. ‘She’d been bleeding pretty badly.’
It was a hot Saturday afternoon and they were on the roof of their Pimlico maisonette. Leo, with a bright green watering can was reviving newly planted pansies and petunias. Zoe was in a deck chair under a striped sun umbrella and offering advice from time to time.
Zoe said, ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s alive.’
‘Who found her?’
‘One of the uniformed PCs. Macrae and I had been up on the roof. We’d found Eames. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like his head.’
‘Don’t, Leo! I don’t want to hear.’
There had been a time when Leo could never have discussed a murder with Zoe. In fact, when they had first lived together he had not been able to discuss any violent crime except on the most superficial level. Now, if he kept heavy things light — and how, he wondered, do you describe a smashed head in those terms — he was able to talk to her about it. And it was categorically not a desire to titillate. It was an unloading, so to speak, of some of the horrors. In this way he was able to sleep at night.
‘Well, anyway,’ Leo said, ‘he was having difficulty breathing and we radioed for an ambulance and back-up and it was when they were bringing him down in a stretcher that she was seen.’
‘And she was the one? The maid?’
‘Yeah. Eames died on the way to hospital. She survived. Of course we didn’t have a clue who she was at that time but once she’d had a blood transfusion she was conscious enough to answer questions, like why was a young woman with a strong foreign accent and no passport bleeding to death in a London square.’ ‘And?’
‘And so we asked her and she told us.’
‘What’ll happen when she recovers?’
‘It’ll depend on the DPP. But everything she said confirmed what Macrae had believed all along. That the Arab was attacking her and she’d defended herself.’
And then?’
‘Deported.’
‘Couldn’t she apply for asylum?’
‘Why? She’s not being politically threatened. If she’s anything she’s an economic refugee.’
‘Just a statistic.’
‘Don’t start with the bleeding heart. I don’t make the rules.’ She glared at him. ‘There’s such a thing as too much watering. My mother says everybody waters too much.’
Threats and Menaces (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 4) Page 18
