This Way Out

by Sheila Radley

  The kettle switched itself off. Derek steadied his left hand by placing the back of it on the kitchen table. He planted his feet well apart, and took a tight grip on the carving knife. Then he drew a shuddering breath, pointed the knife, and slashed his palm from the base of his fingers to within an inch of his wrist.

  He gasped with shock, but felt nothing on his hand except a light stinging blow. Staring stupidly at the white line scored across his palm, he realised that all he had done was to break the skin. He’d hardly drawn blood, for God’s sake.

  Disgusted by his cowardice, he watched as the line of the cut reddened and blood began to seep out from under the overlap of skin. He could feel the sharpness of it now, but he knew that the injury wasn’t serious enough for his purpose.

  He gripped the knife again. He had begun to shiver, but the adrenalin was running strongly enough for him to do what was necessary: retrace the line of the cut sufficiently deeply to ensure that Christine would have to take him to the nearest hospital casualty department, twenty miles away in Yarchester, to have it stitched.

  It hurt, of course. He could hear his moaning intake of breath, his recurrent ah-h-hs of pain as the blade moved along the line of welling blood and bit into his raw flesh. But then he had meant it to hurt, hadn’t he?

  Think why you’re doing this. Think of poor old Enid, upstairs, whose death tonight this is all about, and punish yourself for being her murderer’s accomplice. Don’t merely endure the pain, welcome it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘There’s no need to shout, Derek. What’s the matter?’

  He had intended to take his injury to Christine, but the distance from the kitchen table to the living-room had defeated him. Reeling from shock, supporting his left wrist with his right hand, he stood holding out to her a cupped handful of blood that dripped from between his fingers on to the cork tiles of the kitchen floor.

  ‘C-carving meat. Knife slipped.’

  ‘Heavens above –’

  Christine flew to his aid, steering him to the sink and thrusting his hand under a running tap. Derek yelped as the cold water hit the lacerated flesh like a blow from a metal bar. He clung to the edge of the sink with his right hand, watching with distant interest as the diluted blood washed pinkly down the plug hole, leaving a jagged V-shaped cut on his palm.

  ‘My poor love! However –? Well, however it happened, it looks as though it’ll have to be stitched. Sit down and hold your hand up.’ Christine pushed him on to a stool, snatched some kitchen paper from the roll, and pressed it into his raised hand as the blood began to flow again. ‘Clutch this while I make some kind of pad.’

  Derek was shivering. He felt white round the gills as he watched his blood trickle from under the quickly-saturated paper, down his wrist and over his watch-strap on to the sleeve of his sweater. But at the same time he was secretly exultant that his part in Operation Brickyard had now been accomplished. He was thankful to be able to submit to Christine’s loving care, absolved from guilt by the thought that whatever happened from now on was out of his hands.

  There was, though, something he had to establish before he could relax. Christine, having folded a clean towel, had instructed him to hold it pressed against the cut while she telephoned the doctor. But they were patients of a group practice in Breckham Market, and the surgery was too close to home; if a doctor were able to attend to him immediately, he would be back at the Brickyard before Packer arrived. And having gone through all this pain, he wasn’t prepared to let the operation be ruined.

  ‘Don’t let’s waste time with local doctors,’ he said, wincing as he pressed hard against the injury. ‘Whoever’s on call could be out already, and it might be ages before they fix me up. Remember when Les Harding cut himself with his hedge-trimmer last year? I drove him straight to Casualty at Yarchester Hospital, and his doctor said afterwards that it was the best thing I could have done.’

  Christine hesitated for a moment, and despite his pain Derek realized how tired she was. Poor darling – after the long drive to Southwold and back, the quarrel with her mother and then the upset over the lost dog, she was in no fit state to take him to Yarchester. His plan had been based on the assumption that she would do the driving, but now he couldn’t bring himself to inflict it on her. He’d have to get her out of the house some other way.

  ‘Call the Hardings, love,’ he urged. ‘One or other of them will be glad to do the driving for you. Only – you will come with me to the hospital, won’t you, Chrissie? Please? Sorry to be such a fool, but I do feel groggy –’

  His wife was already dialling their neighbours’number. Evidently glad that she wasn’t required to drive, she gave him an affectionate glance as she waited for her call to be answered. ‘Of course I’ll come, if you want me to. Ah, Vera – sorry to bother you but we’ve got a bit of an emergency …

  Derek exhaled with relief. His hand was hurting like hell; but he’d cleared the way for Operation Brickyard, and at the same time provided himself with an alibi that no one would ever question.

  The Hardings, a tall thin couple a decade older than the Cartwrights,

  arrived at the Brickyard within minutes. Under the lights that illuminated the outside of the front door, their teeth and glasses shone with friendly concern.

  ‘Tough luck, Derek,’ said Les, holding open the passenger door of his Nissan. ‘Glad to have a chance of repaying your kindness, though. In you get, old man – oops, mind your hand. You coming too, Christine? Then you can take him straight in to Casualty while I find somewhere to park.’

  ‘That’s what I did when Leslie had his accident,’ said Vera. ‘It simplifies things no end. But we don’t want you to go unless you really feel well enough, Christine. You know what hospitals are like, you’re bound to be hanging about there for hours. That’s why I’ve come round, to see if you’d like me to go in your place.’

  Derek, gingerly holding his towel-swathed hand out of the way as Les fastened the seat belt for him, caught his breath. His wife was not particularly fond of Vera who, over-eager for friendship, invariably touched or patted her arm as they talked; but for all he knew Christine might be thankful to accept the offer and stay at home. And if she did, his plan would be ruined.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Vera,’ he heard his wife say, ‘but no thanks. I feel fine.’

  Good for Christine! Derek breathed again.

  ‘Well, as long as you’re sure,’ said Vera. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about your mother – that’s the other reason I’ve come. I’ll stay here and keep her company until you get back.’

  Appalled, helplessly strapped down, Derek shouted out in protest: ‘No!’

  Aware that everyone was staring at him, he sought for milder words to deter their well-meaning neighbour. ‘We’d hate to put you to that trouble, Vera – wouldn’t we, Chrissie? I mean, there’s no need for it. Enid’s not ill, she’ll be perfectly all right on her own.’

  ‘Of course she will,’ said Christine, sliding into the car. ‘It’s very good of you to offer, Vera, but Mum’s already in bed, happily watching television. I’ve told her where we’re going, and I’ve locked the front door, so there’s nothing for any of us to worry about.’

  ‘And anyway,’ said Les, clipping his own seat belt, ‘the old lady’s got your beagle for company, hasn’t she?’

  Derek wished he hadn’t said that. But luckily, Christine was calling good-bye to Vera at the time and didn’t hear.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when they drove out of the Brickyard, and well after midnight before they left the hospital. And in all that time Derek’s hand had hurt so much – eight stitches, without benefit of a local anaesthetic – that he had had no difficulty in putting everything else out of his mind. Hadn’t even tried to look at his watch until they were half-way back to Wyveling, when he remembered that it had been so sticky with blood that at some stage Christine had unstrapped it.

  The two of them were sitting side by side on the back seat while Les Hardi
ng drove them home through the moonlit countryside. Derek was holding his bandaged, aching left hand up against his chest. His right hand was resting on his thigh, and Christine had tucked her fingers into his.

  ‘Wha’s the time?’ he asked blearily.

  She took away her hand and looked at her watch by the light of the tiny torch on her key ring. ‘Quarter to one.’

  Then presumably it was all over. Enid was dead.

  The thought left him strangely unmoved. He seemed to be emotionally numbed. He closed his eyes and calmly tried to anticipate what he would see when he went up to his mother-in-law’s bedroom – as he must, of course, immediately they got home, to protect Christine from the discovery.

  At least Enid’s face would be covered by the pillow. Derek was thankful, for all their sakes, that Packer had accepted his suggestion of smothering the old lady. And Christine had said that her mother was already in bed before they left, so with any luck no part of her would be visible. All he would see would be the frilly-edged, flowery pillow, and a mound under the matching quilt. He would have to lift the pillow, of course, just to make sure … and then he and Christine would be free at last.

  He had expected to be, if not overjoyed, then at least filled with relief by the prospect of freedom. But now he found that he was strangely indifferent to it.

  Having dreamed for so long of ridding himself of his mother-in-law, his indifference disturbed him. No, not indifference; distaste for something that had suddenly gone sour. He had wanted the freedom for his wife’s sake, but now for the first time he looked beyond his own part in her mother’s death and realized that while his ordeal was almost over, Christine’s was about to begin.

  However gently he tried to break the news to her, it was bound to come as a terrible shock. She’d get over it, of course; she’d realize that it hadn’t been a bad way for her mother to go. But all the same, during the next few days it was Christine who was going to have to pay for the release he had thought he was giving her.

  Poor girl, what had he done to her? As if she hadn’t already had more than enough suffering! He felt himself begin to shiver uncontrollably.

  ‘Cold, Dee?’ Lovingly, his wife slid her arm through his and held his good hand in both of hers. ‘Snuggle up, darling, soon be home.’

  Sickened by guilt, Derek was incapable of returning the strong clasp of her hand, or welcoming the pressure of her breast against his arm, let alone of snuggling. Christine loved and trusted him; what he had done to her was unforgivable.

  But then he recalled something Packer had said to him: As a matter of fact, I’ve never killed anyone before. P’raps I shan’t have the guts. P’raps when you get home you’ll find the old woman still alive and kicking.

  Please God, Derek found himself praying frantically, as the car’s headlights lit up a signpost saying Wyveling 1 (1/2) miles: please God, don’t let it have happened. Don’t let me find Enid dead!

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Les Harding as he turned the car into the Cartwrights’long front yard. ‘Your outside lights aren’t on.’

  ‘They were when we left,’ said Christine.

  ‘Must’ve fused,’ said Derek. He cleared his throat. ‘Give me your keys, love,’ he added, glad of an excuse to enter the house first, ‘and you stay here while I find out.’

  ‘I’ll bring my torch,’ said Les.

  Derek walked apprehensively towards the front door. One-handed, he turned the key, stepped inside and felt for the switches. They all worked. Packer must have switched off the outside lights before he left.

  Blinking in the sudden brightness, he saw that Packer had carried out at least the first part of his undertaking. The door of the living-room was open and all the audio and video equipment had been piled in the hall, as if ready to be shifted out. The door of the hall cupboard was also open, and its contents were scattered on the floor.

  ‘Hell’s bells,’ said Les Harding at his shoulder. ‘You’ve been burgled, old man!’

  Derek’s mouth was dry, his throat constricted. Unable to think of anything appropriate to say, he let out some kind of croak. He knew that he must go up to Enid’s room, but he seemed to be incapable of movement.

  It was Christine who got him going. Pushing past him into the lighted hall she took one look at the mess, drew a gasping breath, and went straight to the point.

  ‘Mother! What’s happened to Mother?’

  Derek caught her up at the foot of the stairs, seizing her in both arms regardless of his injury. ‘No, Chrissie, no! Let me go first. You stay with Les –’

  Thrusting her into their neighbour’s care he took the stairs two at a time, switching on lights as he went. The door of Enid’s room was closed. He paused for a moment, trying to quieten his panicky breathing, then turned the handle and pushed the door ajar.

  He wanted to hope for the best; but he knew immediately, from the profundity of the silence that issued from the dark room, that Packer had done the job. His mother-in-law was dead.

  Pushing the door wider, he took two steps inside. Enid’s bed was behind the door, out of the line of light from the corridor, but he could see a tumble of bedclothes and the shape of her body – not neatly covered, as he had hoped, but apparently lying on rather than in the bed.

  He reached out for the light switch. Before putting it on he took a steadying breath, and it was then that he noticed the intrusive smell. Enid’s room invariably smelled sweetly dusty, of face powder and violet-scented talc. But this smell was rank, alien, as though a visiting animal had left its spraints.

  He switched on the light. Enid was lying sprawled on her back across the bed, a fluffy slipper dangling from the toes of one bare projecting foot.

  Packer had not merely done the job, he had done it with what looked like an obscene enthusiasm. From the lividity of her face, her swollen tongue and the bruises on her neck, it was apparent that Enid had not been suffocated but strangled. And from the way her nightdress had been bundled up to expose her aged flesh, it seemed that murder alone had not been enough to satisfy him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If his mother-in-law were ever to be found dead in suspicious circumstances, thought Detective Chief Inspector Quantrill darkly as he left his Breckham Market home the following morning to start the Wyveling investigation, his colleagues wouldn’t need to go far to find the murderer.

  Douglas Quantrill and his wife’s mother cordially detested each other; had done so ever since they first met. Instead of giving him credit for admitting responsibility for her daughter’s pregnancy and doing the decent thing by agreeing to get married, Phyllis Barratt had never forgiven him for seducing Molly.

  To be fair (and with a father’s hindsight) Quantrill acknowledged that the news that their nicely-brought-up girl had been impregnated by a twenty-one-year-old National Serviceman they had never even heard of must have come as a great shock to Phyllis and her husband. But their shock had been nothing in comparison with his own.

  Molly, at nineteen, had been very attractive; but he wasn’t in love with her and it wasn’t marriage that he’d pursued her for. The loss of his freedom had blighted his young manhood, and it had always rankled with him that Molly’s mother, while insisting on a rapid wedding, should have made it so abundantly clear that he was not and never would be good enough for her elder daughter.

  The fact that he had buckled down to family life and had eventually made progress in a respectable career had failed to change Molly’s mother’s attitude. Her husband Jim had been cordial enough as soon as their daughter was safely married, but Phyllis had made it her life’s work to be critical of her son-in-law.

  Luckily for the young Quantrills, Jim Barratt’s job had taken him and his wife and their second daughter Mavis to the north of England. Mavis had married an approved suitor and settled in Harrogate, and visits from any of them to Breckham Market had been mercifully infrequent.

  But now Phyllis was widowed. She was old, she had heart trouble, she was unsteady on her pins, he
r sight was failing. Although she kept insisting that she wanted to remain in her own house in Northallerton, it was clear to her daughters that she could no longer live alone. Something, they agreed, would have to be done about her.

  To Quantrill, the solution seemed simple enough. If his mother-in-law couldn’t look after herself, she would have to go into a home. But the two sisters, after long telephone consultations, declined to consider any such thing. Their mother had looked after them throughout their childhood, Molly told her husband, and now it was their duty to look after her. They had devised a plan for having her to live with them turn and turn about, for six months at a time, and as Molly was the elder she proposed to take the first turn.

  Quantrill had objected vigorously, but his wife refused to budge. After all, she pointed out, he wouldn’t see much of her mother because he spent most of his time at work. And now that they had moved to Bramley Road, he couldn’t claim that they hadn’t enough room.

  Looking after one’s old parents wasn’t just a duty, either, Molly had continued. It was a matter of conscience. She didn’t want to have anything to feel guilty about for the rest of her life, or to go on reproaching herself for after her mother was dead. And Quantrill, who had made the pressures of his job an excuse for neglecting his own mother during her last ailing years and had been (privately, he’d thought) deeply remorseful ever since her death, had been shamed into acquiescence.

  But the reality of having Molly’s mother in residence was worse than either of them had anticipated. Phyllis Barrett was as censorious as ever, and now cantankerous with it. Far from being grateful to her daughters for conspiring to take care of her, she had made it plain on her first evening with the Quantrills that she would never cease resenting being uprooted from her own home. And in the middle of that night, when her son-in-law was called out to the murder, she had stood in his way, dressing-gowned and propped up on her walking-frame, berating him for lack of consideration because the telephone had woken her.