Almost inevitably he said: “Okay, I didn't went to see, I went to take flowers.”
I looked at him for a moment and decided against fine tuning.
“Good,” I said. “Why?”
He wasn't keen on being questioned. “I like Julie. She treats me like grown up.”
“You mean she serves you beer and you're under eighteen.” He pretended not to understand what I was talking about, so I moved on. “Julie has regained consciousness. Last night, though, someone assaulted her, in hospital.”
He flicked his head, like a startled bird. “She hurt?”
“No, just livid. Angry. But did you see anyone at the hospital, suspicious people, near her room?”
“Two policemen. I speak to them, leave flowers to them.”
“With them. You didn't see ... Tom Templeman, in the hospital, near the hospital?”
“No. But I see Gizzy in HMV.”
“When? What time?”
He shrugged. “Four o'clock.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“Sure. She buy CD. Eva Cassidy.”
I nodded and began clearing the table.

At about ten o'clock I drove over to Penman Manor where Charnley had set up his inquiry room.
The main house was a seventeenth century pile that boasted one of Oliver Cromwell's boots and very little else. It was all front and no back, Jack once told me. The facade was magnificent, the other three sides serving merely to prop it up. Inside, evidently, the rooms were large, tall, freezing in the winter, stifling in the summer. Neither central heating nor air conditioning had been installed mainly because the owner was skint.
I parked on the main drive and walked up to the stables, set above the house in a sloping woodland of pines, most of them as tall and bare as telegraph poles. Hanging from a large hook, in one of the porch rafters, was a small deer. Tied by the back legs, in unnatural length, the white fur of its belly was dappled with blood from the fatal wound received when a car ploughed into it, by the look of things. The head hung small, the antlers neat but unimpressive. The vein at its neck had been severed and blood was dripping into a bucket below. Police humour prevailed. Someone had stuck a note on it saying: “Remember the Green Cross Code.”
Inside the stables the atmosphere was casual and off guard, feet were on desks, cookery was being discussed. A young woman detective was berating her colleagues, good naturedly. Most could hardly boil an egg, she said, but here they were with every last detail on how to cook venison. John Faraday looked up from a fresh cup of coffee and hollered:
“Guvnor! You're down on my list to call. Guys, this is D.C.I. Hawk.”
Of the ten people in the room, six rose to their feet. The others did so only when Faraday glared at them.
“How's it going?” I asked one of the late responders.
He smiled and offered me a cigarette which I declined.
“If you've come to give us the benefit of your experience,” he said, “you've had a wasted journey.”
“Two blokes were picked up early this morning,” Faraday explained. “They've been held at Banbury. The boss has gone with a couple of blokes to collect them.” He smiled. “And we know about last night at The Radcliffe, by the way. Bailey and McKinnon confessed all.”
“So these two Charnley's gone to fetch,” I said, “He's bringing them here?”
“They've been on the cards for a few days now.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Boss wants a quiet word with 'em before he does the interview at Aylesbury.”
“You have facilities for a 'quiet word'?” I asked, looking round.
“There's a room out back like a nuclear bunker. In fact I think it was a nuclear bunker.” He gestured to the coffee pot and led me over to it. As the others went back to swapping cookery tips, he said confidentially: “I told Charnley about the shotguns, by the way. He had Terry Quilter run 'em through the system. No jam today, no jam tomorrow, I'm afraid. No licence has ever been issued to anyone with those initials.”
I shrugged my acceptance of the fact. “Which one is Terry Quilter?”
Faraday nodded at the studious looking bloke, broad face and steel-rimmed glasses. Twelve years old. He hadn't stood up when I'd been introduced. He was also responsible for killing the deer.
“Who’s the girl?” I asked, referring to the only woman in the squad.
“That’s Jenny Drew,” he said, quietly. “Worth all the others put together.”
“And Jack's death is still an accident?”
Faraday rocked a hand in mid air. “Inquest was adjourned, as per normal. You'll be called when whoever's dealing has dealt, but meantime, yeah. Langan was pissed, pathologist says he'd drunk enough Irish whisky to fuel an Easter Rising.”
The sound of a vehicle pulling up brought a tension to the room. To a man, and woman, they rose to their feet, cleared desks of cups and rubbish, all of them exuding a body language not so much respectful as fearful. Faraday nodded for a couple of them to go outside and help their colleagues bring in the prisoners.
When Charnley entered, ahead of the arrivals, he stopped and considered the attitude he'd take towards me. He raised a hand, part greeting, part truce.
I said: “All over bar the shouting, I hear.”
“Quietly confident, put it that way.”
“Congratulations.”
And at that he visibly relaxed.
“Aye, well, you know what they say. If you don't catch the fuckers in the first week, you'll spend another six months at it.”
I smiled. “And you've got better things to do?”
“Too bloody right! I've got a life out there and I'll not have two half-arsed cowboys get in the way of it.”
The cowboys he'd referred to were pitched into the room by Charnley's men and stood, handcuffed, where they came to rest. Charnley turned to the squad.
“Right, lads, and for your information too Mr. Hawk, these two little fuckers are...”
“Malcolm Edward Jackson,” I said. “And Christopher John Evans.”
Charnley looked at me. “You know 'em?”
I showed him the page of mug shots I'd found in the bedside cabinet at The Radcliffe.
“Who gave you that?”
“Nicked it.”
“Aye, well, what it doesn't say there is that these two fell out with Jim Ryder four weeks ago, just before their release from Grendon.” He turned to the taller, curly headed one. “Jackson here admits to saying he'd call in at The Plough one day and kill the bastard.”
“Does he admit to following through?”
Charnley laughed. “Surprisingly, no. Fits the description, though, doesn't he. Tall, spindly sod. Mind you, he can go smaller.”
He swung round and punched Jackson in the stomach. Jackson gasped and bent to a right angle, head on a desk. Charnley leaned on his neck and turned to the now terrified Evans.
“This is how we do things here, lad, deep in the woods, all dark and spooky, miles from anywhere. Jesus Christ, we've even got a Hawk ready to stoop. Guvnor, is either of these the man you chased through the hospital?”
He pulled Jackson to an upright position by his hair.
“The bloke wore a balaclava,” I said. “Hard to say.”
“Well, be that as it may, guess what he's the proud owner of. A new Kawasaki, bought three days ago, cash. Julie Ryder's cash, I reckon.”
“No!” said Jackson, as forcefully as he dared.
“Take 'em to The Box Room, John. So called because...?”
He cupped a hand to his ear and the expected reply came back from several members of the squad:
“Because that's where we do the boxing, guvnor.”
Jackson and Evans were hauled away, Charnley reached down to a cupboard.
“Fancy a drink?” he said.
“No, thanks.”
He poured himself a large whisky, knocked it back in one.
“So ... you have had your nose in my business, I hear. Now's a good time to a
dmit it with me being in such a cheerful mood.”
“I've stayed clear, just like you asked.”
He smiled, not believing a word of it.
“But I have done some checking,” I added. “I've a couple of contacts up at Grendon, I phoned one of them this morning. He says your man Jackson, he'll beat the shit out of a credit card soon as look at it. But people? No.”
He smiled. “Oh, aye? What's he say about Evans?”
“The same. He reckons you've panicked, lifted these two for a quick result. And to cover up the fracas last night. You've just nicked a couple of petty thieves for two murders.”
Still smiling, Charnley raised a finger, his middle finger. “Only one murder. Your friend Jack Langan got careless.”
“That's the other mistake you've made.”
He flapped the back of his hand at the door to dismiss me and I left.

The Wyeths lived in a cottage which looked as if it had parachuted in and landed neatly between a converted Primary School and the Old Post Office. The reason for its appearance was a large, blue tarpaulin, some thirty metres square, draped over the rotting roof by a thatcher in far off Witney who'd been commissioned to renew it.
What had happened, the village believed, was that Allan had over-indulged his favourite pastime of haggling and had reduced the thatcher's quote to a bare minimum. The young man had gone home to his wife who had objected and had visited the Wyeths to argue her case. Allan had, no doubt, woven his flawless charm over the girl and she had agreed to his knockdown price. A few days later the tarpaulin was put in place, pegged down on all sides, and the re-thatch promised within four months. That was ten months ago, but having toyed with other thatchers' quotes, and found them to be astronomical, Allan was determined that the Witney firm should fulfil its promise.
The inside of the cottage was a homage to chaos and low standards of hygiene. I'm not saying that my own should be thought of as a bench mark but I'd been for supper at the Wyeths once and we'd eaten off plates that bore evidence of half a dozen previous meals. The knife I was given clearly doubled as a screwdriver, the prongs on my fork were webbed with hardened tomato. I was pretty sure the salmon Petra dished up had been standing about doing nothing but decompose long before cooking.
As for the chaos, it arose from Petra's aversion to the dustbin. It wasn't that she horded rubbish, she merely horded her past, mainly her children's past. The walls and shelves bore witness to Daisy an Digby’s educational progress from the year dot. Drawings, paintings, woodwork, pottery, essays, certificates, photos, anything that vaguely celebrated their development, hung from the walls of Victoria Cottage. I've one or two bits and pieces myself that ring pleasant bells, but to have kept Jaikie's portrait of me, done when he was three years old, would have raised many an eyebrow. I'm simply not built like that. Ellie's playschool model of her mother was, frankly, obscene.
The Wyeths' Beetle was parked outside the cottage. The repair work had been done but the fresh paintwork betrayed where the damage had occurred, the night of Jim's murder. Off-side wing. I went up the front path and knocked on the door.
Petra was delighted to see me. She clearly thought I'd come with news about Charnley and his faded interest in them. Allan appeared from the depths of the house, combing the thin, reddish hair to be presentable for a visitor. He was having a well-earned day off, he said, and in order to take full benefit from it was dressed in a baggy sweater which hung down over the brown corduroys, worn smooth in countless patches. He shook my hand and suggested a drink. I could hardly refuse twice in the same day. He opened a bottle of wine.
“How goes the world with you, Nathan?” he asked. “Settling in?”
“Allan, we did all this last Friday, up at Angie’s.”
“Ah, yes, but one of us was pissed then, if not all six, so it doesn’t count.”
“He means he can’t remember a word,” said his wife.
“In that case I’m settling in fine. How go the plans to change the face of education?”
“Extremely well, thank you for asking. In fact, just yesterday we learned that Eruditio will receive a substantial – I say again substantial - government grant. What do you say to that?”
“You’d think they’d spend it on schools they’ve already got, rather than ones you haven’t bought yet.”
“There’s method in their madness, dear boy,” he said. “If government is seen to cast bread on the water, then big business will do the same, if only to curry favour.”
“How much is Eruditio after, then?” I asked.
“Are you belted firmly into your seat? One hundred million quid and, by God, we’re on track to get it!”
Two million pounds seemed pretty small beer, by comparison. Alan tilted the bottle into the glass he’d set before me. I was pretty sure it was a clean one.
“Darling?” he said, raising the bottle to his wife.
“A tiddler.”
He poured his wife the smallest drink I’d ever seen and I raised my own.
“To Eruditio, then. May your only problem be that everyone will want to put an N on the end of it.”
Allan chuckled. “In a way that will be a mark of our success. It’ll mean they know what the word means and how to spell it.”
We drank, and then Petra turned to me.
“Nathan, did you ever manage to speak...?”
I raised a hand. “All done and dusted, Petty. In fact Charnley told me only this morning that he's arrested two people for the murder. Keep it under your hat.”
“Maybe they'll leave poor Tommy alone now,” said Petra. “And Giselle, come to that. I mean one can see their point, of course, nearest and dearest, but the one they call Drew, the woman, is down at The Plough daily.”
“It'll be routine stuff,” I said.
Allan nodded. “And this business with dear Jack?”
“Inquest adjourned,” I said. “Accident, say the police.”
“But he was such a careful chap,” said Petra, shaking her head.
“Poor, poor man,” said Allan. “Poor Jean and the girls, as if they haven’t had enough to cope with in their lives.”
It was said, I believed, not so much out of compassion but relief that they’d got away with having lied to me about the Beetle.
“Let’s change the subject,” I said brightly.
“Yes, yes,” Allan agreed. “Splendid idea. Name it and off we go.”
“How about car crashes?”
He tried to hide his immediate shock but, unable to do so, so, gave me his usually winning smile.
“What do you mean?” said Petra with only a tenth of her husband’s charm.
“You pranged your car up there on The Ridge the night Jim Ryder was killed.”
“Who told you?” asked Petra.
“I'm a policeman, we find things out. Listen, I know you didn't play any part in Jim's death but something ... something happened up there and I'd like to know what.”
They looked at each other for a moment, then Allan nodded and Petra explained:
“Allan shouldn't have been driving. I mean given the current dealings with ... ludicrously wealthy and over-sensitive people, you don't need me to write the headlines, do you? Eruditio Big Wig Pissed as a Fart Behind Wheel?”
Allan was clearly uncomfortable with Petra’s journalistic pretensions and tried to moderate them.
“When all we did was just ... come off the road.”
“Where?”
His wife jumped in as he was about to answer. “The crossroads at the observatory. Allan took the turn too quickly, wretched car skidded.”
“And hit what?”
“Whatever was there ... at the time. Rubbish, I think, someone had...”
“Who or what did you hit?” I insisted.
“I've just said...”
Allan laid a hand on the table to calm the proceedings and, hopefully, follow that up with a truthful account. He set his wine glass down in front of him, gazed into it
as if glimpsing an uncertain future.
“I turned onto The Ridge without a second thought. God knows, I could see the other car but for some drunken reason I thought it was my right of way.” He shook his head at his own stupidity. “Crunch! It rammed us on the off-side. I stopped, he stopped, the whole bloody world seemed to stop. Then I saw there were two of them in the car and to my horror they were hooded. Balaclavas.”
“You didn't see a face? Is that the truth?”
“We didn't see a face and as I was composing my resignation letter to Lord Shellaby, the Chairman of Eruditio, the car sped off.”
“Number plate? Make?”
“I'm sorry, Nathan, no, and that's the truth as well. A dark car, though. Saloon.”
“And that's it?”
“Yes.”
“I think you mean no, Allan. I drove past that crossroads no more than five minutes later. How come I didn't see you?”
They exchanged another glance. They'd obviously prepared a serialised account of what had happened, in case of trouble, and I'd insisted on hearing the final instalment. Finally, Allan said:
“Behind the car, their car, was a chap on a motorbike.”
“Marlon Brando? Jack Nicholson?”
“He didn't introduce himself,” said Petra, moodily. “Not in the conventional sense, anyway. He got off the bike, came over and stuck a gun in through Allan's window. We were terrified.”
“I’ll bet you were. Shotgun?”
“No,” said Allan. “A handgun.”
“He wore a helmet, I take it?”
“Oh, yes, couldn't see his face. Black helmet, black visor, black bike. Talk about creature of the night.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Held his free hand out, palm upwards. I thought he wanted money so I handed over my wallet, like a fool. But he didn't want money, of course.”
“He wanted to know who you were and where you lived. And now he does.”
Allan nodded, took a swig from his erstwhile crystal ball.
“Took my driving licence.”
“Then what?”
“He pointed down the Pollicott Road, made it clear that that was the way I should go. So I did. He followed, for about a mile then ... all of a sudden he turned and hared off back the way we'd come.” He shrugged with his hands. “I've been expecting the worst ever since.”
Haggard Hawk: A Nathan Hawk Crime Mystery (The Nathan Hawk Crtime Mysteries) Page 12
