Dirty Weekend

by Alan Scholefield

  Silver went on. Branches shook and he saw the white blob of her face.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ he said.

  She stumbled forward and he caught her, then pulled her up on to the far bank.

  ‘You’re all right now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you.’

  She began to shake with relief – then she began to cry.

  *

  For Maria the remainder of the night and most of the early part of Saturday morning passed in a dream – but at least it was a dream and no longer a nightmare. The two Chinese men, one dead and one groggy from Macrae’s blow to the head, were removed. Then Maria took Macrae and Silver to the house in Broadhurst Mews where Benson’s cold body still lay tangled in the counterpane. She gave them the money and tried to explain it as best she could.

  They sealed the house and called in the lab liaison officer, the police photographer, the coroner’s officer, the doctor, and the district fingerprint officer. By the time they took her to the station to take her statement she was wearing Silver’s leather jacket and Macrae’s heavy woollen scarf.

  And by that time Terry was a long way away.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Half the holiday’s gone,’ Zoe said, ‘and we haven’t seen each other yet. Never mind an orgy.’

  ‘I know,’ Leo said, coming out of the shower and towelling himself.

  It was breakfast time on Easter Saturday and he had just got home.

  ‘It’s the only time in the day I see you. Either now or late at night. What do ordinary people do?’

  ‘We’re not ordinary.’

  ‘You want some more coffee?’

  ‘Listen, I’ve got to be back in the office in a couple of hours. The whole thing’s blown wide open.’

  ‘I thought you’d solved it. I thought it was a kid.’

  ‘It was until yesterday. Now it’s . . . well . . .’ He explained it to her as best he could but the look on her face told him she did not understand and he knew too little about what was going on to make it any clearer.

  ‘But what about the kid?’

  ‘We lost him in the park. It was as black as pitch. By the time we’d dealt with the other two and found the woman, he’d split.’

  He got into his pyjamas and crawled into bed. He was so tired his head felt numb.

  She got in with him and put her arms round him. ‘This is platonic,’ she said hastily. ‘Just hold me. It’s better than nothing.’

  She was warm and living and breathing and her skin felt wonderful under his hands. Slowly he began to relax. Slowly his brain rejected the images of the night: the burning man, the dead man. Slowly, in her arms, he became Leopold Silver, human being.

  Sleep began to creep into his brain.

  ‘Leo, what’ll happen to the kid?’

  ‘We’ll pick him up. Probably today. He can’t get far.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ll check his story. I’m pretty sure I know what happened. It was probably self-defence.’

  ‘Poor kid.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  *

  Macrae sat on his unmade bed and dialled Linda’s number. She answered almost immediately, as though she might have been waiting for the call.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, George.’

  Did she sound just that little bit disappointed?

  He said, ‘Sorry to ring early like this. You up?’

  ‘Yes, I’m up.’

  ‘I was going to suggest we meet.’

  ‘That’s right. You said so.’

  ‘But things have . . . well, they’ve got a bit, you know . . .’

  ‘Oh. Well, never mind.’

  She sounded so brisk. She was probably going out with someone else anyway.

  ‘Could I ring you tomorrow?’ he said.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘I might be clearer tomorrow.’

  ‘Let’s see. Yes. Why not? Why don’t you ring me tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll do that. Oh, and, Linda . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell Susie it’s all right. I mean about the money. I’ll get it somehow.’

  ‘That’s good of you, George!’

  ‘Yeah, well. Listen, I’ve got to go. I just thought I’d tell you.’

  ‘Thanks, George. I’ll ring her today. She’ll be thrilled.’

  ‘OK, then. I’ll try to ring you tomorrow.’

  He put down the phone and gave himself a belt of whisky then stretched out on his bed fully clothed. The whisky tasted good. If he was going to become like his father at least he was going to enjoy it.

  But he wasn’t.

  No, he wasn’t.

  Because if he wanted to make the sort of money he clearly needed to make he was going to have to keep the whisky bottle out of sight. And he was going to have to be a good boy.

  Christ, what a prospect.

  *

  At the other end of the dead line Linda Macrae went and got herself a cup of coffee and looked out over the silent suburban street.

  She would have two cups and then a long bath with a book. And then? Well, the shops were open at least. She could go and do the weekend’s food shopping. But that wouldn’t take long. She was shopping for one now.

  And then?

  She didn’t know.

  The weekend was halfway gone but it was still a long time to Tuesday.

  *

  At the same time as Linda was pouring herself a second cup of coffee, Maria was unlocking the front door of her house in Hampshire. She hadn’t fetched Caesar. She wanted to have a few hours’ rest first. She closed the door behind her and thought: home. For the first time it felt like home, like her territory.

  She threw her things down on the hall table. She wanted a bath and bed. She had been up all night with Macrae and Silver. She’d told her story half a dozen times and each time it had sounded like she was describing some dirty weekend that had gone wrong.

  Which it was – but in a different way.

  She walked to the bottom of the stairs and as she did so she heard a noise at the far side of the house. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. It came again. A scraping noise. As though someone had moved a chair.

  The house was gloomy and silent. She was gripped by the terror of the night before.

  Who was this? Another man? Someone who was coming for her alone?

  She saw a figure materialise at the end of the passage. He seemed to be coming towards her. She turned and ran for the front door, wrenching at the handle.

  ‘Maria!’

  She stopped and turned. She could see him now.

  ‘Oh God, Richard!’

  She threw herself at him, feeling his arms come round her body, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

  ‘Oh, God. I’m so glad to see you! When did you get back?’

  ‘Half an hour ago. Where were you, and where’s the dog? Nothing happened has it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ she said, already beginning a mental editing process. ‘You first. I thought you were going to be away the whole weekend.’

  He gave her a cup of coffee in the kitchen where he had cooked himself breakfast. The smile disappeared from his face as he talked. As he told her where he’d been.

  ‘Hong Kong!’ she said. ‘But you said . . .’

  ‘Lisbon. I know.’

  And then he told her why.

  ‘Stealing?’ she said. ‘From the business?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s been going on for some time. Mrs Feniman alerted me. You remember her?’

  ‘Chiffon scarves.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then it was Mrs Feniman who was telephoning. I thought . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She lit a cigarette and said, ‘I always knew Jack was dishonest but I never thought he’d steal from us. From you.’

  ‘Us. Well, he did. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure and I couldn’t be certain until I’d been out there. He’s disappeared. Run for it. And he’s t
aken everything he could.’

  ‘Darling, there’s something you should know.’

  When she had finished telling him his face was white and drawn.

  ‘God, what a mess,’ he said. ‘And I haven’t told you the worst. Mrs Feniman. By the time I got there the police had found her body in the office. She’d been tortured then killed.’

  ‘Oh, Richard!’

  ‘The police think they know who organised it, but they say it’s going to be difficult to prove. Things are always difficult to prove in Hong Kong when big money’s involved.’

  ‘Talking about money . . .’ she said, and told him about the duty-free bag.

  He listened in silence, chewing at the side of his cheek, then he said, ‘Mrs Feniman told me he was salting it away somewhere. That’s last year’s profits, and the year before that, and before that, and God knows what else. And I was pouring money in from this end. It was like an open wound.’

  ‘We’ll get it back, won’t we? I mean, the police will understand?’

  ‘I’m not sure I have your faith. Anyway, we’ll give it our best shot.’ He was silent for a few moments and then said, ‘What about the boy? The one who helped you?’

  ‘The police don’t think he’ll get far. Richard, I want do to something for him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But something.’

  ‘Sure. We’ll do something. But in the meantime I’d better get in touch with this superintendent what’s-his-name?’

  ‘Now?’ She rose and put her arms around his neck.

  ‘Well, perhaps not just at the moment,’ he said.

  *

  Terry was only truly happy when he was running. And he was running now. One foot after another, his soft-soled trainers making a light thud . . . thud . . . thud . . . on the cold London pavements.

  Day . . . lee . . . Day . . . lee . . .

  He kept up the rhythm of his running. Left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . . Day . . . lee . . . Day . . . lee . . .

  He ran towards Shepherd’s Bush. The sign on the road said White City Stadium.

  People were out shopping. The streets were busy. Terry’s green woollen hat bobbed along, jinking in and out of the crowds.

  White City Stadium!

  It was where his and his grandfather’s kind of people came together. Maybe that’s where Daley would be. Preparing for the new season.

  He couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

  Or anything else to do.

  So . . . OK . . . Hundred metres final. Daley Thompson. And Barney Ewell. And Harrison Dillard. And Haseley Crawford . . . and Huntsman Collins.

  Everybody nervous. Yawning a lot. Belching.

  ‘Better out than in,’ his grandfather always said.

  Everybody getting down to their blocks and kicking their feet backwards to shake the dirt from their spikes.

  On your marks . . .

  Get set . . .

  Wait for it! Don’t false start.

  And the gun . . .!

  Huntsman out of his blocks like a racehorse.

  And racing now over Shepherd’s Bush, between the cars and the people.

  And it’s Huntsman Collins . . .

  ‘He coming through like a train . . .’

  Huntsman . . .! Huntsman . . .!

  Here’s the tape . . .!

  Last great effort . . .! Chest out . . .!

  And the cheering and the shouting were in Terry’s ears as he ran as fast as he could up Wood Lane and into the cold north-east wind.

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