‘Tiny! We’ve been over this again and again. I wasn’t upset. Honestly. Please stop apologizing.’
‘You’re too good to me. Knew you were a good bloke when you wouldn’t shop me to those security bastards. You’re a true friend, a true friend.’
Tiny crumpled into an abject posture, edged himself back into his chair and tried to adopt a foetal position. The wooden arm caught his knee a painful crack, his arms flew out sideways as he attempted to right himself and a glass ornament on a side-table crashed to the pine floor and shattered. He jumped up with a look of panic. ‘Must clear this up. Fran’ll be furious.’ Then, as reality forced its way through his alcohol-fuddled brain, he sank down unsteadily, buried his face in his hands and said: ‘No, she won’t. She’s dead. Wait till I find the bastard who did this. I’ll kill him.’
Amiss looked miserably at his watch. One o’clock in the morning. He’d been in this room now for eight hours. He couldn’t blame Jim for this. Once he’d discovered that Tiny had no one to stay with him he would have felt bound to offer his own services, Miss Nash or no Miss Nash. He hadn’t expected when the last stragglers left two hours earlier that Tiny’s brave front would so quickly collapse. At least he could feel he was being useful. Tiny had a lot of misery to get out of his system and he didn’t seem to know anyone else with whom he could let go. I suppose it’s a form of shiva, he thought.
For a moment he thought that Tiny had fallen into a restful doze; then there was a stirring of the massive frame and Tiny clambered to his feet. ‘I’m not looking after you. Have some whisky?’
‘Just a little one.’
Tiny located the bottle and began to slosh its contents vigorously into Amiss’s glass.
‘Plenty, thanks.’ He noted with resignation that Tiny had yet again succeeded in spilling a fair quantity over the arm of the sofa. Amiss topped up his glass with water to the brim. Tiny eschewed any such adulteration. He raised his half-full tumbler to his lips and swallowed half of it.
‘Cheers,’ he said heartily.
‘Cheers,’ responded Amiss with some embarrassment.
‘You never know who your friends are till you’re in trouble.’
Tiny embarked once again on the circular conversation about the nature of friendship. Wearily Amiss made yet again the correct-seeming responses to Tiny’s monologue about how he hadn’t seen his old pals, his true pals, since he and Fran moved down south. How the rugby club fellows were all very well, but only good for talking over games. How he didn’t know the neighbours, because in the south there wasn’t the memory of hard times shared to bring people together. How the blokes at the office were decent enough, but not like pals, real pals.
‘Except you, Robert,’ he said, making an affectionate lunge, the purpose of which was to pat Amiss on the arm but which succeeded only in knocking his ashtray on to the floor.
‘Did Fran have friends?’ asked Amiss, hoping to break the cycle.
‘How would I know?’
Amiss hoped the belligerent note in Tiny’s voice didn’t presage trouble. If Tiny proved to be as violent as Miss Nash claimed, Amiss doubted his ability to overcome him. A thoughtful expression crossed Tiny’s face.
‘She used to talk to a few of the neighbours. And there were the women at the kindergarten she helped out at in the afternoon.’
This was a new one on Amiss. ‘Fond of children, was she?’
‘Cracked about them.’
Nothing ventured…thought Amiss. ‘Couldn’t she have any of her own?’ He looked nervously at Tiny. There was a brief silence.
‘No, she couldn’t.’ He seemed to have sobered up somewhat, observed Amiss with surprise. Emboldened, he continued.
‘What was the trouble?’
‘S’posed to be my fault, first. Then s’posed to be her fault. Then they said it was both our faults.’
Amiss felt a swimming sensation in his head. He topped up his glass with more water and said, ‘Sorry, Tiny. I don’t quite understand.’
‘I can tell you this. Couldn’t tell any of the other fellows. ’Cept my old pals. But never see them.’
‘You can tell me.’
Tiny’s eyes closed tight in concentration. ‘When we were looked at first, ten years ago, they said I’d a low sperm count.’ He looked up anxiously. ‘That doesn’t mean I couldn’t do it. I’m as good as the next man.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Had to get fit. That’s why I took up rugby again. You’d think she’d have been grateful, but she wasn’t. Then we had to be careful when we did it. Only the times they said she’d ovulate. Kind of took the fun out of it.’
‘And that didn’t work.’
‘Bloody didn’t. Next thing they say she’s got something wrong with her hormones as well. Injections. All that carry-on. Then, a few months ago, another bright bloody medico said we’d both probably be all right with someone else. Something about a chemical antagonism between my sperms and her secretions. Is this getting too difficult?’
‘No, no. I think I follow. Didn’t they have any suggestions?’
‘Only one was that she might get artificially inseminated by some other fellow.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
‘How do you think I felt about that?’ Tiny’s voice had risen to a bellow. He stood up and shouted, ‘That’d be just like her having a bastard! Wouldn’t it? How would you feel?’
‘But would it really make any difference?’ asked Amiss hesitantly. ‘It would be like adopting, wouldn’t it? Except that it would be half hers.’
‘That’s what she said.’ Amiss was relieved that Tiny had sat down again, and his voice had dropped. ‘But I couldn’t see it that way. Kids are a bloody nuisance, really. I don’t see how you can like them if they’re not yours.’
Pooley had a point, thought Amiss—even if he had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Tiny certainly was afflicted by inhibiting macho attitudes.
‘Did she mind a lot?’
‘Did she hell! She said she’d divorce me. I expect I’d have given in. I couldn’t have stood her carry-on much longer.’
‘You didn’t want a divorce?’ Amiss hoped he wasn’t pushing his luck, but Tiny seemed calm enough to take the risk.
‘I don’t know. Marriage. I often wondered what the point of it was. We got married first because we thought she was pregnant. Good joke, that. Or maybe she pretended. I often wondered about that too. I don’t suppose either of us enjoyed being married much. She couldn’t have the kids she wanted. I couldn’t do anything I wanted. Couldn’t even have the kind of house I wanted. Bloody stupid jerry-built crap-house full of rubbish.’ He picked up a Hummel figurine. ‘See that? Do you like that?’
‘It’s not my kind of thing, I must admit.’
‘Not mine either. But I had to work in that cruddy job to pay for stuff like this. Not any more, though.’ He looked at the ornament with intense dislike, and in a sudden movement, hurled it at the wall. It met a china vase head-on, and the fragments of both fell into the mock fireplace.
Amiss looked with awe around the living room. At this rate of progress, between intentional and unintentional destruction, Tiny would have laid it waste within a couple of days. He lit another cigarette and picked up the ashtray. There didn’t really seem not to be much point in clearing butts off the floor. He observed with interest that when Tiny again rose to do the honours with the whisky he succeeded in grinding ash into the rug with his left foot and fragments of ornament into the floorboards with his right.
‘Did anyone know you two were having these infertility problems?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone. Fran must have told some of them something. She probably blamed me. She couldn’t stand people thinking she was barren. Women are bloody stupid. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
Amiss didn’t pursue the question. He couldn’t himself see much difference between the respective hang-ups that plagued Tiny and Fran, but there was no point in trying to mediate betwee
n a suspect and a corpse.
‘You wouldn’t have minded her blaming you?’
‘No…Well, not much…I could take it. The important thing is to know you’re a real man. Have I told you about that try I made a couple of weeks ago?’
Twice, thought Amiss. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I went through them like a dose of salts. There I was, mid-field, and Johnny Chadwick snaps one back from the ruck…’
A couple of minutes later, the triumphant climax to the story woke Amiss up. He applauded vigorously. ‘Are you going to go on playing?’ he asked.
‘Not here. I’ve had enough of this dump. And the BCC. I’m getting out as soon as I can.’
‘Where to?’
‘Kenya.’
This promise of adventurousness almost took Amiss’s breath away.
‘Kenya?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a brother there with a big farm. He always said he would find a job for me on it. But Fran wouldn’t hear of the idea.’
Motive for murder? wondered Amiss. Surely not. Tiny could just have upped and gone. But he hadn’t, had he? Not till she was dead.
‘When are you thinking of going?’
‘As soon as I’ve got rid of this house and everything in it. And I’ll not be going back to the office. I told Donald this afternoon that I wanted to give in my notice. He seemed to think that what with the leave I’ve got saved up, I won’t have to turn up again. I don’t think I could face it, anyway. Imagine me, Tony and Henry—and the others—looking at each other wondering which of us had done this.’
Amiss couldn’t imagine. All he knew was that he would have to turn up on Monday and try to behave normally.
He assumed his most hearty tone. ‘I think it’s a great idea, Tiny. Here’s to it.’ They both raised their glasses and drank.
Tiny got to his feet. ‘I’ll miss you, Robert. You’ve been good to me.’
Fearing a return to the well-furrowed discussion of friendship, it was with some relief that Amiss saw Tiny’s knees buckle under him. He finished the contents of his own glass at one swallow and prepared to try to heave Tiny to his bedroom.
Chapter Twenty
Amiss gripped the receiver tighter. ‘Come on. Say something. Don’t you think this rules Tiny out?’
‘I have to agree that it very much weakens any case against him.’
‘Surely, Jim, it demolishes it completely. If they had gone on with the divorce he’d have buggered off to Kenya, so what price the issue of his reputation in the rugby club? Anyway, she wouldn’t have been divorcing him for impotence. The old rat-bag next door must have got the story muddled. Doesn’t my account of last night prove she’s not a reliable witness?’
‘Well, it does sound as if the alleged violent orgies of destruction were probably Tiny repeatedly falling over his feet.’
‘Can you take him off the list of suspects?’
‘I’ll have to check out his story with doctors, friends and relations, but I’m inclined to believe it.’
‘You won’t quote me, for God’s sake, will you?’
‘No, no. We’re a bit more discreet than that. I’ll get Sammy to have a chat with Miss Nash first off. If she’s a very impressive witness, we’ll have to consider the possibility that Tiny was cunningly pulling the wool over your eyes. But, as I say, that seems unlikely to me. How was he this morning?’
‘Distinctly under the weather. I don’t think he’s used to drinking spirits. He didn’t seem to regret having talked to me—though I doubt if he remembers quite what he said. He went so far as to repeat his protestations of undying friendship on the doorstep this morning. We even managed an awkward manly embrace.’
‘I’d like to have seen that. Right. Many thanks. You did your job nobly. Ann was touched by the message you passed on via Sammy. She sent her love to you both and departed this morning telling me to look more closely at Bill.’
‘Why Bill?’
‘The Melissa theory seems to fit him better than anyone else.’
‘Poor old sod. You can’t be a bit of loner nowadays without everyone deciding you’re a nutcase. Anyway, aren’t there a couple of equally peculiar blokes in PD1?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? They’re all ruled out. Absolutely rock-solid alibis. I won’t give you the boring details, but there’s no doubt about it. The credit mainly goes to Horace Underhill, who had called an ideas meeting with them for 8:30 on the Friday morning. Your lot straggled in at various times and could all theoretically have made it to the post office before work.’
‘Hell,’ said Amiss, stubbing out his cigarette furiously. ‘What about any of PD1 sneaking up from home to push their parcels into the box after the last collection on Thursday?’
‘Believe me. Between witnesses, railway time-tables and information from British Rail, we are absolutely certain that only your people are in the running. There is no doubt about it. Chief Inspector Trueman is thorough to a fault. Pooley remarked that the exercise was conducted in a manner worthy of Inspector French.’
‘Who is this Pooley?’
‘A rather engaging, desperately keen, detective constable. He’s becoming rather a pet of mine. Makes an interesting contrast to some of our stolid cynics. He likes making comparisons with cases he has read about—real and fictional. He’s been going on rather about famous strychnine cases—have you heard of Cream and Palmer?’
‘This Pooley strikes me as too much of an antiquarian. I didn’t think the young read Freeman Wills Croft any more.’
‘That’s what I like about him.’
‘Jim. Much as I’d like to chat to you all day, I have things to do. I’m going to buy Rachel the best lunch I can find.’
‘Enjoy yourselves. I am shortly heading off for Hertfordshire to try to force a confession out of Graham Illingworth.’
‘It’s impossible to force as much as a stapler out of Graham Illingworth unless you’ve got the appropriate requisition slip.’
‘I think I have. The fact that his daughter doesn’t like chocolates makes him now our leading suspect.’
‘Did your predecessors get Cream or Palmer on such flimsy evidence?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Pooley.’
***
Amiss’s spirits began to sink on the tube to Heathrow.
‘Maybe I should move in with Tiny for a week or two. It’d be better than being on my own.’
‘You’re not serious, are you?’
‘No. I suppose I’m not. From what I’ve seen of Tiny as a housekeeper, I’d turn into the nagging partner of The Odd Couple. I’m just feeling ill-equipped to be on my own.’
‘You couldn’t stay with Jim?’
‘That would go down well with my staff, wouldn’t it?’
‘Sorry. Silly idea.’
Amiss looked with dislike at a gaggle of German tourists whose Aryan beauty and muscular frames made him feel prematurely aged.
‘I really must do something about getting fit,’ he muttered. ‘It’s disgraceful, at my age, that I can’t run upstairs without panting.’
‘You could take up a sport.’
‘I hate sports.’
‘So buy yourself a little pair of blue satin shorts and jog to work every morning. Or give up smoking. And drinking. I don’t care. Just shut up whining.’
Amiss took on an injured tone. ‘I thought you’d understand how dreadful I feel about facing work tomorrow.’
‘I understand. Of course I understand. Haven’t I been putting on a convincing imitation of a ministering angel all week?’
Amiss leaned over and kissed her. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a combination of lack of sleep, general horrors and the fact that you’re going.’
‘I’ll be back in six days, for heaven’s sake.’
‘That’s the trouble with you modern women. You’re as bad as Ann Milton. You think it’s normal to conduct a marriage—or in your case, a courtship—in the occasional intervals between pissing off around the world.’
‘On who
m would you have me model myself?’
‘I don’t know. Any good housewife. Edna Crump?’
‘A few days ago, I’d have found that a singularly tasteless remark. But I’ve been discovering the truth in that ancient adage about laughing so that you won’t cry.’
‘That’s just as well. I should think you’ll be getting a fair share of hysterical giggles down the phone during the week. At the moment, I’m returning to cheerfulness at the thought of what Jim is likely to be going through with Graham. If he thought Melissa was a stone-waller, he hasn’t lived until now.’
***
Graham was sitting primly on a hard-backed chair in his tiny dining room. As he had explained to Milton, the living room was in use by Gail, who was watching an old film on television. Her joyful snorts of laughter occasionally punctuated the difficult conversation next door. Milton had been struck by the fond expression that crossed Graham’s face every time he heard her. He thought briefly of asking if she could be persuaded to turn down the volume a little, but thought better of it. Graham was clearly so besotted that the request would alienate him permanently.
Milton sipped the tea that Val had provided with such bad grace. He couldn’t spin the preamble out any longer. He had been given confirmation of Graham’s movements between leaving work on Thursday and arriving in on Friday. He could prove he had caught a train home that left London before the last post on Thursday. He looked after Gail all evening until Val came home from work at midnight. What he could not prove was whether he had, as he said, missed the 7:35 train to work and had to wait for the 7:55. The former would have given him ample time to make the detour to the post office.
‘I fear, Mr Illingworth, that you do not have an alibi.’
Graham sat up even straighter in his chair. He had to raise his voice to drown out the sound of singing from next door. ‘I have to say that I resent your scurrilous inference that I might have wanted to murder my wife.’
The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders Page 11
