‘Um, excuse me,’ I called, ‘can I just ask,’ I said, breathlessly, catching them up, ‘since this is my home, and Alf Turner is staying on my premises – can I just ask what this is all about?’
He turned. ‘Yeth of course. It’s about his wife.’
‘Whose wife – Alf’s?’
‘Yeth. She appears to be missing.’
‘Missing! Oh, oh no, now you see I can help you with that, officer,’ I said eagerly. ‘If you mean Vi, she’s gone to Spain!’
He gazed witheringly at me. ‘No, Mrs McFarllen, she hasn’t gone to Spain. For one thing she has never in her life possessed a pathport and she certainly hasn’t forged one and sneaked her way out of the country. She’s missing, believe me. In fact we’re very much afraid she may be dead.’
I stared. ‘Dead!’ My hand shot to my mouth. ‘Oh!’ I gasped.
‘Exactly. Oh,’ he repeated quietly. His pale grey eyes bored deep into mine. ‘Bear that in mind, Mrs McFarllen, when you answer any more of my questions, hmm?’
And with that he turned and left.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Dead!’ I stared after his retreating back. Spiro came up behind me.
‘Spiro, she’s dead!’ I gasped.
‘Who dead?’
‘Vi, Alf’s wife!’
He gazed at me, open-mouthed. Slowly it dawned. ‘Oh! Oh no, so poor Alf! He be so sad, Meesis McFarllen! He have his heart broken in a million tiny pieces, he –’
Mac and Lance materialised from the bushes and came over the bridge, just as Spiro was filling up and reaching for his hat. Mac jerked his head. ‘Vamoose, Spiro.’
‘Ti?’
‘You heard, Zorba, beat it,’ he snarled. ‘Go find a kebab house to loiter in and bring us back a doner while yer at it. Go on, get out of here.’
Spiro’s eyes widened. ‘Ah yes, yes.’ He looked suddenly nervous. ‘Good idea, I go for doner.’ He backed away.
‘Excellent. Now.’ Mac’s steely-blue eyes met mine. ‘We need to talk.’
‘We certainly do,’ I muttered.
‘Over here.’
He led the way back across the bridge, pausing only at the caravan to reach in and grab a six-pack from inside the door. Then the three of us, under his guidance, moved further along the river and sat down on the grassy bank. Lance was silent.
‘She’s dead, Mac,’ I breathed, staring into the water.
‘I know.’
‘Does Alf know?’
He turned his head, looked at me for a long moment.
‘He killed her?’ I gasped.
‘Didn’t think it would take you long. But he didn’t kill her, as in murder her, right? It was an accident.’
‘Jesus!’ I got to my feet, knocking his Pils over. ‘He killed her, Alf killed his wife – Jesus!’
‘Sit down,’ hissed Mac, reaching up and taking my arm roughly, dragging me down. ‘An’ keep yer voice down!’
I glanced around. There was no one about, but I appeared to be trembling. I sat down again.
‘Now listen,’ he breathed hoarsely in my ear. ‘It was an accident, right? A terrible, tragic accident, like a kiddie drowning in a pond while his mum’s not watchin’, or like knockin’ an old lady down ’cos you didn’t see her suddenly step off the kerb, and that’s not murder, is it? That’s manslaughter, innit? See the difference? He’s not a bad man, our Alf, orright?’ His blue eyes bored into mine.
I gulped and inched back slightly on the grass. ‘All – all right.’ I nodded. ‘What happened?’ I whispered.
Mac took a slug of beer, narrowed his eyes across the river.
‘That weekend, a while back, when we went home, and Lance stayed here, remember? Real scorcher?’
I thought back desperately. My mind whirled for a moment, then memories of Malcolm standing me up and Lance sitting me down and me slapping the Ambre Solaire all over him in the garden and Claudia going missing jostled for position so – yes, that weekend, it must have been … ‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ I muttered.
‘Well, previous to that, she’d bin ringin’, right?’
‘Who had?’
‘Vi, on his mobile, ringing and ringing, all week, and always givin’ him earache – remember that? ’Member how his phone never stopped goin’? An’ we all kept groanin’ and sayin’, “Bloody hell, it’s bleedin’ Vi again,” an’ laughing about it – yeah?’
‘Oh yes, yes, I do remember.’
‘Well, what it was, right, what she was on about, was some kitchen cupboard she wanted puttin’ up. On an’ on she went, an’ she wouldn’t let it go. Right bleedin’ nag, she was, always giving it verbal, but old Alf, he don’t mind, see, he never minded, ’cos he loved her, right, and he was used to it, wasn’t he? So anyway, he went home that Friday night and said – yeah yeah, orright luv, stop givin’ me grief, I’ll do it, orright? I’ll put it up.
‘“Now,” she says firmly.
‘“Aw, come on,” says Alf. “I’ve had a hard week, I’ve just got in, luv. It’s bin a long drive, I need me tea. Tomorrow morning, like.”
‘“No, I want it tonight,” she says. “You never do sod all round this place for me, Alfred Turner, always fixin’ up someone else’s place. Well, bleedin’ well fix mine up for a change!”’
Mac sucked his teeth. ‘That’s what she was like, see,’ he muttered. ‘Never mind that he was bringin’ home the dosh “from fixin’ someone else’s place up”, never mind that he was handin’ the whole lot straight over to her every bleedin’ Friday night. Oh no, never mind all that.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So anyways, old Alf, he hauls himself out of his chair, even though he’s knackered and he ain’t even had his tea or anything, and goes to the shed and gets this cupboard, right? He’s made it already, see, made it the weekend previous – and then he gets the step ladder out too, an’ he starts fixin’ it up, an’ all the time she’s standing there givin’ him earache below about how he’s never home and what a useless lump of lard he is. Well, finally, right, he gets this cupboard up on the wall, hammers it home, and he’s wobbling about on top of the ladder and he calls down, “About there orright, luv?”
‘And she stands back and says – “Bleedin’ heck! It’s not even bleedin’ straight, you useless lump of shit!”
‘Well, Alf, he loses it then. He’s tired and he’s hungry and he’s up this ladder, and he slams his hammer down on the floor – chucks it away in disgust. Only what he don’t realise is, she’s moved forward, hasn’t she, and she’s standin’ right underneath him now. Well, it gets her – WALLOP! – right on the side of the head, right on the temple, and she falls to the floor in a heap, crumples like a pack of cards. Well, the next thing Alf knows, he’s tearing down that ladder, and then he’s crouched down beside her in a pool of blood, feeling for her pulse, which she ain’t got.’
‘Oh God,’ I breathed.
‘So anyways, trembling and sobbin’ like, he gets straight on the blower to me. Really cryin’ he is, and I can hardly make out a word he’s sayin’, but I get the gist orright when I hear him say, “I’ve killed her, I’ve bloody killed her, Mac!” So I’m shitting myself, right, but I tell him to calm down an’ I get round there sharpish and I don’t tell no one where I’m going, not even the missus or nofing. Well, when I get there, burst through the door, there he is. Sat there, poor sod, sobbin’ his eyes out on the kitchen floor, covered in blood ’cos he’s tried to revive her, tried to give her mouf to mouf, the daft sod, and the poor bitch is in his arms, head back, mouth open, bleedin’ like a stuck pig, cradled like a baby.’
‘Oh Christ.’ My hand flew to my mouth. I glanced at Lance. He was hugging his knees tight, staring at the grass. He’d gone very pale.
‘Well, I’m in a right state now, aren’t I? On the one hand I’m all for ringin’ the police an’ tellin’ it straight, leavin’ the steps right where they are, hammer an’ everything, all just as it is, but on the other, I’ve got Alf, see, cryin’ his eyes out, huggin’ an’ kissin’ her an�
� that, and strokin’ her hair which is covered in blood and moanin’ about how he didn’t mean to do nofing, and in that split second I fought – well, who the hell are they goin’ to believe? Not my little brother, that’s for sure. What, married to some naggin’ old witch that everyone knows is a right pain in the arse and would testify to that effect? A right old cow who finally gets her comeuppance in a well-deserved hammer blow to the head? “Just slipped out of my hand, your honour, didn’t mean to chuck it, honest?” Do me a favour,’ he scoffed. ‘And old Alf – he’d be useless in the dock, under fire from some poncy brief – “Er, now tell me, Mr Turner,” Mac puffed out his chest and popped his thumbs into an imaginary barrister’s gown, “would you concur that you were actually involved in an argument with your wife at the time of the assault?”
‘“Well,”’ Mac shuffled sheepishly on his bottom, aping Alf, ‘“Yeah, she was windin’ me up a bit, yer honour, yeah.”
‘“She was … Winding You Up. Hmm. I see. And did you therefore lose your temper?”
‘“Yeah, well, I was cross an’ that but I –”
‘“Did you, in fact, slam that hammer down with some considerable force?”
‘“Well, I didn’t mean to, like, but I suppose –”
‘“Aha! So you did slam the hammer down with –” Nah.’ Mac broke off in disgust, spat in the bulrushes. ‘He don’t stand a cat’s chance in hell. He’d be in that slammer before you can say hot porridge, and that’s unnecessary.’ Mac wagged a finger. ‘He’s never hurt a fly in his life, old Alf. He’s as gentle as anyfing, we all know that, and he don’t deserve that.’ He reached for his Pils and threw his head back, sucking on his can with a vengeance. As his head came back down, I realised there were tears in his eyes. I remembered the story about Alf’s eye – what horrors they’d been through together.
‘So … what did you do?’ I asked tentatively.
Mac swallowed hard and I realised he was in trouble. He shook his head to indicate he couldn’t speak. Lance cleared his throat.
‘He got her out of his arms – prised her, apparently, Alf was clinging on to her for dear life – stripped off all of Alf’s clothes and burnt them, then he took him upstairs and gave him a shower. Dad said it was like washing a baby, said he just stood there, dumb, not resisting or anything. Then of course he had to scrub the kitchen, and the shower, and then …’ Lance swallowed.
‘Then I realised there was no goin’ back,’ Mac continued gruffly. ‘I’d done it, then, see? Burnt the clothes, scrubbed away the blood, got rid of the evidence. All in a matter of minutes. It dawned on me then that there was no way I could go to the police. I had to carry on.’
‘And the body?’
Lance shook his head. ‘Dad won’t tell me.’
‘Alf and I dealt wiv that,’ said Mac gruffly. ‘It’s not for the lad to know. He’s got enough on his conscience already through no fault of his own, an’ it’s not for you to know neiver.’
‘No! No absolutely not, don’t tell me, Mac!’ I got up hurriedly, suddenly realising I knew far too much already. I moved along the river bank, hugging myself. I felt so cold, freezing actually. I clutched my upper arms tightly. My mind was spinning. God, I – I was an accomplice now or something, wasn’t I? In it up to my neck! Christ, how on earth had I managed to get involved in this? I had to extricate myself forthwith! I had to – well, what did I have to do? I swung around. Mac was watching me closely.
‘But – but surely, Mac, now that the police have got a whiff of this, now that they think she might be dead, surely you’ll have to come clean? I mean, they definitely suspect Alf. You heard what that guy said, so Alf will have to talk to them now, won’t he? Tell them what happened? You could persuade him to, and you could help him, too. I mean I know Alf’s likely to get in a muddle and say the wrong thing, but between you, you could both tell them what you’ve just told me! I mean, I believe you, so why shouldn’t they? It looks far more guilty not to say anything, not to go in and answer their questions!’
‘Don’t be soft,’ he scoffed. ‘The only reason you believe us is ’cos you know us, and trust us. They’d take one look at us, root around in our backgrounds – which are tidy, but not immaculate – see how we’ve tampered with the evidence, and then they’d be rubbing their hands wiv glee! Oh yes, yet another conviction to pop under the DI’s nose, yet another murdering bastard nailed, and a right feaver in their caps, too! Nah, do me a favour. That’s right out. There’s no question of that, not now, it’s too late. Alf’s got to get away, that’s the only answer. He’s gone, anyway, see. Gone to a safe place.’ He checked his watch. ‘In a couple of hours he’ll be out of the country, heading for the Spanish –’
‘OH, MAC, DON’T TELL ME!’ I shrieked. ‘I – I don’t want to know!’ I swung round, turning my back on him, biting my thumbnail frantically, and staring, horrified, into the gathering gloom of the middle distance. My God, what was I doing even listening to this? This was like – well, like getting involved with the great train robbers or something! A nice bunch of cockney lads, kind to animals and old ladies, always sending flowers to their mums, and who’d only meant to rob a train like Butch and Sundance did, who hadn’t meant to blow the guard to bits and skip off to Puerto – I swung back. ‘And has he got a passport?’ I demanded. ‘Alf?’
‘He has now.’
I groaned, clutching my head. Oh God, why did I ask that? Now I knew! A false passport probably, and – oh crikey, yes, of course, a thousand pounds in folding readies stashed in his pocket. I gulped. Kindly donated by yours truly, not two hours ago. No wonder he’d wanted more.
‘And you? You and Lance? They’ll be back to question you in the morning, surely?’
Mac lit a cigarette and sucked hard. ‘I’m sure they will, and we know nofing. All we know is what Alf told us, that Vi left him. Packed her bags ’cos she’d had enough of ’im and went to Spain to stay with a friend, and as far as we know, that’s where she still is. Right, Lance?’
Lance was still staring miserably at his shoes. ‘Right,’ he muttered bleakly.
‘And Alf? Where’s Alf, they’ll ask.’
Mac shrugged, expressionless, just as he no doubt would in the police station. ‘Alf? Dunno. Really, dunno, guv. Christ, I’m not my brother’s keeper, am I?’ His blue eyes widened innocently at me.
Oh, but he was, he most definitely was, and always had been. And I had no doubt that in the not-too-distant future, Mac would be joining his brother in Puerto wherever-it-was, taking the whole family with him, upping sticks, buying a little villa, running up a few haciendas with the help of his masonic brothers and sons, before going on to buy a bigger villa, with luxury pool and then retiring to run a beach bar. Mac had neatly averted disaster all his life, slipping and sliding, ducking and weaving, just one step ahead of his clumsy, not-so-sure-footed brother, but always there to stretch back a hand to catch Alf, should he need one, should he fall. I crouched down beside him.
‘So why tell me?’ I breathed. ‘Why not just tell me what you’ll tell the police? That you’re not your brother’s keeper and you haven’t a clue where he is?’
‘Because you know us too well and you know about Alf’s stupid letters and you’re too bleedin’ smart into the bargain. I had you fooled wiv the Trinidad and Tobago stuff, which, incidentally, happens all the time round our neck of the woods, but I knew I’d have to tell you if the old bill came snoopin’. They just came a bit sooner than I’d hoped, that’s all. We should have ’ad Alf away days ago, but these fings take time to arrange, if you know wha’ I mean.’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t.’
And I didn’t want to know either. Didn’t want to know about false passports, false identities, someone to meet him on the other side, no doubt. Let’s face it, there’d have to be. I couldn’t see Alf getting to Tooting on his own, let alone Marbella. No wonder it had taken time to arrange – and then a safe house somewhere, with someone to look after him until Mac could get out there. And
of course extradition was still lax in some areas on the continent. For all the Spanish protestations that they did their best, if you knew the right people, it was still possible to lie low, and if the heat was turned up, why, you could always get on a boat and hop across to Marrakesh until things cooled down. And meanwhile, yes, meanwhile, poor old Vi lay a-mouldering in a shallow grave somewhere. Mac caught my eye.
‘An accident, remember?’ he said sharply. ‘He loved her, orright? Really loved her. You saw ’ow he was for weeks afterwards, beside ’imself he was, weren’t he?’
I nodded. That much was true. I remembered them all coming back that weekend: Alf in tears; Spiro, with presumably not a clue what was going on but joining in on the waterworks front anyway out of sheer solidarity; Mac, pale and tense, hustling them all to work like demons that morning, taking their minds off the horrors of the past couple of days with some hard graft; and Lance – no. No, of course, Lance had been here that weekend. It was the weekend that Claudia had gone missing. I suddenly remembered rushing to the pub to look for her, but finding him on his mobile phone instead, talking to his father, looking deadly serious, grim. And then I remembered his strange reluctance to call the police to find Claudes …
I turned. ‘You knew? When I found you in the pub?’
‘Only that Vi was dead,’ he said quietly, ‘and that it was an accident. I didn’t know what Dad was planning to do, but I knew enough not to get the police round here if I could possibly help it.’ He regarded me squarely. ‘Although I would have done, Livvy. Had we needed to.’
I nodded. I believed him too. Believed both of them, knew instinctively they were both telling the truth, and knew instinctively that the police wouldn’t believe them and would nail Alf, and that life was so unfair. But where did that leave me?
‘I’m counting on you to stay shtumm, luv,’ said Mac quietly. ‘Not to lie or anyfing, not to tell any porkies, right, but just to say nofing. Say you don’t know, orright?’
Olivia's Luck Page 41
