by Alan Hunter
‘If you couldn’t pay her the money, how were you going to shut her up?’
‘. . . she didn’t . . . wasn’t . . .’
‘Hadn’t you better tell us?’
‘I . . . no . . . isn’t true . . .’
About eight p.m. the phone rang and put an end to that round. The two D.C.s had reported in from their search of the Major’s house and car. A fruitless search. All it had produced was a painful encounter with Mrs Rede; she had accompanied them back, and was sitting now in reception, wearing the same puffy, beaten look as her husband. And then there was Pamela in her hospital bed. And overseas somewhere, Pamela’s parents. We were really doing well, big men: going for the break and likely to get it.
‘Sir, I’m pretty sure now you were right,’ Eyke murmured, his eye on the drooping figure in Reception.
I winced. ‘Thank you. I’d better have been, hadn’t I?’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind. Keep right on pitching.’
But I’d had enough: couldn’t face another bout of that slaughter in the office. I left abruptly, keeping my hypocritical eyes averted as I hurried through Reception. Out into the clean air and innocent streets, the pale favour of evening sunlight. To be brought up short in a dozen yards by a bull-necked man stepping from a doorway. Selly.
‘Get out of my way!’
‘No – listen! I’ve something to tell you.’
My fists were doubling, I couldn’t help it; I could feel them sinking in his flabby flesh.
‘It’s the bleeding Major. You’re doing him, aren’t you? But you don’t know what I bloody know.’
‘Stand aside!’
‘I’m telling you, sonny. I’ve got the goods that’ll fix him.’
I might have hit him, perhaps ought to have hit him, but there was still a policeman behind those fists. If he really had information about the Major I had to hear it, though it came from the devil. Slowly, I let my fists relax. Selly sneered and edged closer.
‘That’s better. You’ve got no call to be high-and-mighty with me, mate.’
‘What’s your information?’
‘Something bloody simple. I wonder you cleverdicks haven’t spotted it yet.’
His hand burrowed in his breast pocket and came out with a tatty address-book. He handed it to me. Still visible on the cover was the legend: With The Compliments of Aplan, Rayner Ltd.
‘Look inside. Page one.’
I flipped it open: page one was an advert. Printed at the top was a list of the members of the board of Aplan, Rayner. At first glance it told me nothing: then I saw what Selly was at. The second name on the list was Reid – and this man, too, had a military title.
‘Are you trying to tell me there’s a connection?’
‘Trying to tell you! It’s bloody obvious.’
‘Not to me.’
‘But it will be, mate, if you’ll pin your ears back a minute. All this ballsing about A & R put me in mind of what Viv once told me – that there was one of them living around here: one of Joe’s boys. Said she’d seen him.’
‘Who?’
‘She didn’t say. Maybe never knew his name.’
‘And this you’ve – suddenly – remembered?’
‘It’s the stinking truth. Do you want to nail this bastard or don’t you?’
‘Not your way.’
I shoved the book back at him with a fierceness that made him stagger. He swore at me: his breath smelt of whisky. I had to get away from there quickly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TO GET AWAY: and not only from Selly. I wanted to get away from that case. From the beginning it had been a painful business, but now it was ugly: destructive and ugly. And somehow wrong. That’s why it was sickening me. In my guts I couldn’t believe in it. Yet it had to go on; there was no option. The facts had manoeuvred me into this position.
I walked fast, cutting down the High Street, then by the upper harbour road to the Common. No object – none. Just fuelling my limbs with my self-disgust and frustration. Walked on the Common, across the Common, sweating, mocked by the smell of the gorse: back again towards the urbane town with its square flint tower, its white, dumpy lighthouse. A splendid evening! All sifted sunlight and a few orangey clouds over the sea: elderly couples gently strolling: a couple of black-capped girls on ponies. Innocent, innocent – but to last how long, in the technological chaos growing about it? Wasn’t the maggot I had found in Wolmering already the beginning of the destruction to come – and Wolmering itself already a fortress, defensively aligned against the final barbarism? Innocence! What price was innocence? Man is the animal who destroys himself.
I strode on. Down to the harbour. The caravan site and the harbour. Where Pamela had parked by the rusty bollards and the rusty, creaking, deserted ship. Where the sea fretted and destroyed the piles and the fishing-boats rotted from day to day and the black rubbish of dead seaweed was beset by midges where it littered the sand. And this was the evening time again, the hour of Vivienne’s last walk. From the jetty’s end I could see once more the faint mirage of the Harwich-Hook packet. A great sea-ghost, hull-down, with its passengers gathered in the brightly-lit dining-rooms; Dutchmen, content with their day’s business, relaxing, enjoying themselves: going home. Again. As it was on Tuesday. As it would be on other Tuesdays. And the lowered sun yellowing the grey sea just as it had done, in Vivienne’s eye. Nothing changed. Nothing acknowledged. So much anguish spent in vain. Including mine, as I walked and walked, rattling the shingle beneath my feet.
Up the beach then, up the footway. Up to the six, cold, iron guns. Wolmering’s impotent defence, her brave bluff: her gesture. Pausing there. It was deserted, as usual. Only the sad murmur of the surf from below. Empty windows in the few, grand houses; a vacant chair in the coastguard look-out. I leaned against a gun, the chill, age-polished metal, and stared at the spot where the footway descended: seeing her coming, the lean, Creole-featured woman, with the lead wrapped round her hand, and the dog following her. She who would have been a stranger on Tuesday, but who was no stranger now; with her bleak, drained eyes, her depressed mouth, mechanical step. No, I knew her, Vivienne Selly. Knew the bitterness she was carrying. The dead weight dragging at her breasts which no new dress could take away. A woman in life but close to death, feeling it close, and not unwelcome. She hadn’t fought it, didn’t want to fight it. Vivienne Selly had been ready to die.
Ready to die . . . yet she hadn’t sought it: not in the way of a Pamela Rede. Had she in her own way? Taken a deliberate step that she knew must end as it did? I tried to throw my mind forward, force it to follow Vivienne from there: drive it to seek out the hidden image which, even now, was a mystery to me. How. . . ? Pamela Rede had tried to give an answer, but her frenzied fancy had missed the fact. If Vivienne had died as Pamela had imagined there must have been signs of it on the body. Vivienne would have been preparing for love, not death. She would have struggled, however feebly. Would have clutched at what was smothering her, damaging her nails; have received bruises when the murderer restrained her. But there were no such injuries; not one. Nothing to give the imagination a handhold. For all our medical expert could tell us, Vivienne had simply laid down and died.
I nursed the gun, that elephantine death-maker. Had I just fingered the key of the mystery? It fitted so well, if one could believe it, setting aside medical opinion. She had wanted to die. Then why not? I had read of it happening among primitive people. Of men giving up the will to live, being robbed of it by witchcraft, or the impact of circumstances. True, the P.M. report had said suffocation, but was auto-suffocation entirely impossible? Wasn’t it just credible that a determined person might arrest the act of breathing until death supervened? I let the camera turn again. Vivienne walking past me. Vivienne with the knowledge of death in her eye. Coming to the road. Putting the lead on the dog. Seeking her chapel of trees far away, across the Common. The dog? She’d have tied it up on the way there, perhaps to the railings of the pavilion. Then on alo
ne. Undressing alone. Composing herself. Switching off.
Credible, credible, credible?
No, I knew it wasn’t bloody credible.
Just that it fitted.
I struck the gun with my palm, a stupid blow that jarred me painfully.
Not credible! Catching at straws! In one hour, two hours, the Major would break. When the sun had gone: when tinsel lights began to frost the passing traders.
That was what was credible, the way it was developing, realising. And no blame to me. To me the credit. Another conviction under my belt . . .
I heard steps near me: it was Reymerston. He had approached without my noticing him – had probably seen the foolish gesture from which my palm was still tingling. His hair was tousled and damp, and he carried a towel slung round his neck – his face scrubbed and glowing; a sort of sea-aura about him. He gave me that little, doubting smile.
‘You don’t seem very content with life, maestro.’
‘I’m not.’
He came to lean on the gun. ‘No . . . perhaps this isn’t one of life’s great moments.’
‘Where is Miss Swefling?’
‘I left her in Eastwich. We were over there this afternoon, you know. Marianne is taking it on the chin. Feels she should have talked to the Redes yesterday.’
‘She won’t talk to them now. That’s all finished.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all round Wolmering. I had a snack in the Pelican when I came back and heard the gossip. The Major’s done for. Then I felt like you. So I went for a swim. Wanted to put some sea between me and Wolmering.’
‘Did it work?’
He shrugged. ‘What did you do?’
‘I went for a walk on the Common.’
‘Has that worked?’
‘No.’ I shook my head and turned up my palm, which was beginning to swell.
Reymerston eyed me. ‘You need talking to,’ he said. ‘And me, I need to talk to someone. But I’m damned if I can stand the bar of the Pelican with all the vultures at their prey. Then again, you’re a marked man, and the place is filthy with reporters. Shall we go to my place?’
‘Let’s do that.’
He lounged off the cannon and we went.
We didn’t talk, though, on the way to his house; and from my point of view talk was almost unnecessary. Just being with this man had a relaxing effect, made you feel that a worthwhile perspective was possible. As though indeed he did put sea between you and your problems, bouncing you up to a saner viewpoint: his elasticity of mind communicating itself to shape and detach the chimeras dogging you.
We reached his house and he let us in.
‘I’m going to make myself some coffee. Something stronger for you?’
‘No, I’ll have coffee.’
‘Good. I like coffee after a swim.’
I went with him into the kitchen and watched him make coffee in an earthenware jug. I thought he was deliberately keeping silent to allow time for my cannon-striking mood to evaporate. Each of his movements was deft and economical. He paid no attention to my presence at all. In as short a time as it might be done he had a tray set and the coffee brewed.
‘Biscuits?’
‘No, thank you.’
We went into the studio-lounge, now being lit by the last of the sun: redly. The end with the books was shadowed in a sort of fiery gloom. We settled at that end, the tray between us. My walk had given me a palate for coffee, too. It seemed especially fragrant, so that I even postponed the pipe I’d been looking forward to. Reymerston drank his, deep in the shadows.
‘So now there’s no doubt about who your man is.’
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’
‘Yet you don’t sound happy. Not confident.’
I grunted into my coffee.
‘Are you confident?’
‘You know I’m not! If I were, I’d be handling the job myself. But facts are facts in my business. We’re materialists. Like Marx.’
He grinned faintly, acknowledging. ‘But I take it your facts are circumstantial. Nothing solid in the way of exhibits that might tie the old lad in. And that’s what’s fretting you. There’s no certainty. You’ve had to blow him up on trends alone. In fact, you’re having to force him to give himself away, and you not being a machine, it’s getting you down.’
‘But that’s not all of it.’
‘What’s the rest?’
‘A feeling in my guts. He didn’t do it.’
‘You – truly – feel that?’
‘I truly feel it. Only we’ve got him in a trap. And he may confess.’
Reymerston drank sombrely, emptying his cup.
‘But if he did that, he’d have to get it right, wouldn’t he? I mean, you’ll have a fairly clear idea of what happened to the woman, and if he doesn’t know that you’ll spot it at once . . .’
‘That should be the case, but it may not work.’
‘Why?’
‘Our idea of what happened is not precise.’
‘Oh, go on! It was reported in the local. And you must know more about it than they do.’
I nodded. ‘But still not enough. Frankly, I don’t know quite how it was done. So if the Major’s confession is in line with the press report, we may simply have to accept it.’
Reymerston looked serious. ‘I see. That is awkward. Couldn’t your pathologist give you any clue?’
‘No.’
‘Then the Major’s completely stuck with it?’
‘Yes. And I’m stuck with the certainty he didn’t do it.’
‘What a bitch.’ He sucked air through his teeth, then held out his hand for my cup. I passed it. He poured more coffee, the double-comfort of the second cup.
‘How is he in a trap, if I’m allowed to know?’
I grunted. ‘We’ll be releasing it soon to the press. His niece left a note confessing to the crime. That’s the cleft we have him in.
‘The devil. Could she have done it?’
‘Yes. Opportunity. Credible motive.’
‘And her too – another feeling in your guts?’
‘More, in her case. I wouldn’t dare proceed.’
He nodded, sipping. ‘You’re certainly involved with that family. Now I understand why Marianne wasn’t allowed to see her. But if they didn’t do it, how about the husband? I wouldn’t get feelings in my guts about him.’
I stirred my coffee a few times. ‘You appreciate that this is confidential information. Heaven knows I’d like to discuss it, but I must abide by the rules. Obviously, Selly is a suspect, and you can assume we have taken a close look at him. A very, very close look. But that’s about all I can say.’
‘And he is still running loose. You won’t proceed with him either.’
‘A fair deduction.’
‘So we can cross him off, along with the Major and the girl. Any marginals?’
‘Perhaps one.’ I glanced to see if this specially impressed him. Apparently not: it hadn’t occurred to him that Miss Swefling might be on the list.
‘Just one. Plus an open field of tramps, intruders and stray psychos. Which you’ll have covered too.’
‘Which we have covered.’
‘So as far as we know, nothing there. Thus we’ve come to this position: the scope of the investigation has been too narrow. Unless your guts are letting you down, you haven’t cast the net wide enough yet.’
I groaned. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘Yes. But have you faced it and tried to act on it?’
I was silent. Perhaps he’d touched something there. I may have let the Major over-dominate my thinking.
‘You won’t like me quoting Sherlock Holmes to you, but the situation seems to call for it. When you have exhausted the probable answers, then you must consider the improbable ones. Why not try it?’
‘Have you any suggestions?’
‘A person with weak or non-existent motives.’
‘But why should such a person kill her?’
‘Stick wit
h the improbable! Have all your murderers had powerful motives? What I’m seeing is a person who is irritated, annoyed, perhaps having a distasteful situation forced upon him. Then he acts not wisely but too well, and suddenly the thing has blown up in his face. Really, an accident. And so no motive that an honest cop would give time-of-day to.’
‘Could the person be a woman?’
‘Not in my picture. I’m thinking of a man she may have made a pass at.’
‘Like you on the beach.’
‘Yes, exactly. Use that incident as your starting-point.’
‘And then comb all Wolmering?’
‘It won’t be all Wolmering. You can narrow it down to a group of contacts. Men she’d see regularly in her daily routine, but with whom apparently she had no connection. That’s the aspect I’m emphasising: lack of apparent connection. You don’t need to look for a compelling motive. Simply a man who she might have approached and placed in the situation we are envisaging.’
‘But if there’s no connection, how do we identify him?’
‘You’ll have to fall back on your routines. Statements of movements on Tuesday evening, opportunity and the rest.’
‘But even then?’
‘Use your guts. I’m sure you’ll spot him when you meet him. Some little strangeness or eccentric behaviour – like me, jumping off the jetty.’
He placed his cup on the tray, then sank back again in the shadows. The sun had gone now. The room was in twilight except at the studio end, which caught a little after-glow. The easel stood as it had in the morning, with a cloth shrouding the work in progress. I rose and went to it. Beneath the cloth was the beginning of a seascape, rhythmic, luminous.
‘Why did you, in fact, jump off the jetty?’
