Never Go Back

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You didn’t drink enough water, did you?’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘Promise me you won’t spend the whole weekend in a dehydrated haze of alcohol.’

  ‘I promise.’

  And somehow he suspected this was a promise he could be confident of keeping.

  He made himself some coffee, then took a bath and, skipping the communal breakfast, headed out on foot. He needed to think and hoped some bracing lungfuls of Deeside air would aid his efforts. He left the hotel, walked downhill towards the village, then struck out along the footpath behind the church. It had formed part of the cross-country route WO Trench had insisted they flog round twice a week, ‘to stop you going any softer than you already are’. But there was no question of Harry breaking into a commemorative trot. A steady walk would serve his purpose.

  The path curved round the hillside ahead of him as he went, the pale trunks and branches of the still leafless silver birches casting an illusion of frost across the surrounding woodland. He tried to recall what Askew had said to him on the platform at Edinburgh and earlier on the train, but could retrieve only snatches of disconnected phrases. He had been anxious about something. That at least was clear. And it concerned Operation Clean Sheet. ‘It depends on how you remember things,’ he had said. Yes. Those had been his very words. ‘And how you forget them.’ What had he meant? What could he have meant?

  A figure appeared suddenly on the path ahead, a dark shape moving fast. Harry pulled up in surprise, then recognized Erica Rawson, running lithely towards him in tracksuit and trainers. She smiled and waved, slowing to a halt beside him, where she jogged on the spot, breathing hard, her face flushed, her hair damp with sweat despite the chill of the morning.

  ‘I’m running off last night’s food and drink,’ she panted. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘OK. I … needed some air myself.’

  ‘Plenty of it out here.’

  ‘We used to …’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Thinking about Peter Askew?’

  ‘Hard not to.’

  ‘Especially as the last person to speak to him.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’ She stopped jogging. ‘Really. I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing.’

  ‘We never know what’s going on in someone else’s head, do we? I mean, why come all the way to Scotland just to …’ He looked past her into the ghostly grey depths of the wood. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Everything makes sense, Harry. It’s just that sometimes it takes a while to figure out what the sense is.’

  ‘Very profound.’

  ‘No. Just true.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so. Well, you’d better get on. I don’t want you catching cold on my account.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  ‘OK. ’Bye.’

  She turned and ran on down the slope towards the church. Harry watched her go, then set off slowly in the opposite direction.

  Erica was right, of course. Everything did make sense. But Harry was a long way from deducing how. When he got back to Kilveen Castle, he found Dangerfield gathering the Clean Sheeters together for the excursion he had planned for them. ‘The show must go on,’ he declared optimistically.

  But the cast for the show was undeniably reduced. With Askew dead, Chipchase absent, Lloyd performing his civic duty at a mortuary in Dundee, Dr Starkie opting out for reasons of his own and Erica sending a message to the effect that she did not wish to cramp the boys’ style, just seven were left to embark on Dangerfield’s mystery minibus tour of Deeside.

  They had scarcely strayed beyond Lumphanan during Operation Clean Sheet apart from fortnightly excursions into Aberdeen on the train. Their knowledge of Kilveen’s wider surroundings was thus zero. Dangerfield took them on a scenic drive west, up the valley into the foothills of the Cairngorms as far as Braemar, where they sought out the hair-of-the-dog drink that several of them badly needed and Harry bought a postcard to send to Donna and Daisy. On the way back, Tancred specially requested a stop at Crathie, so that he could satisfy his royalist sentiments by gazing at the turret-tops of Balmoral Castle, which was all of the castle he could gaze at above its screen of trees. Dangerfield switched to the south bank of the Dee at Ballater so that he could show them one of his favourite salmon-fishing spots. Then it was on to Aboyne – and lunch at the Boat Inn.

  So far, no one had mentioned what must have been at the forefront of all their thoughts. That changed as they started on the beer, however, and soon theories were being swapped as to how Askew’s suicide could be explained. Since Dangerfield and Wiseman had not actually met him, they had to rely on the others for insights into his state of mind at the time. Judd gave it as his opinion that Askew was exactly as he had always been – subdued, introspective, unpredictable. Tancred, on the other hand, said he was surprised and yet not surprised by what Askew had done. ‘If I’d had to nominate one among us as a suicide risk, it would have been Crooked. There was always something slightly unstable about him.’

  Harry sought to avoid putting forward a theory himself. The truth was that he did not have one. He kept trying to imagine Askew pushing down the window in the train door as far as it would go, then heaving himself out into the battering rush of air. But the image would not stick. Another, more macabre yet oddly more plausible version of events intruded. In this, Askew was already unconscious from a blow to the head as an unknown figure pushed the window down and propelled him through the gap to his death on the track below. Put on the spot by Wiseman, however, Harry said nothing of this. ‘I don’t know what happened to him,’ he maintained. ‘I simply don’t know.’

  Dangerfield’s choice of afternoon destination was Craigievar, the pink-hued masterpiece of Deeside castle-building on which the architects of Kilveen had clearly based their work. Tancred and Wiseman derived more pleasure from a tour of the apartments than the rest, for whom details of Scottish baronial plasterwork held limited appeal. All in all, Harry and the others gave a poor impersonation of historically sensitive tourists, but put away a National Trust tea with gusto.

  Nobody mentioned Lloyd, but Harry assumed he was not alone in wondering how poor old Jabber’s trip to Dundee had gone. It was only a matter of time before they found out. Back at Kilveen they established that he had returned an hour or so previously, but no one felt inclined to call up to his room. Harry indeed was glad to retire to his own, in the hope of catching up on some of the sleep he had missed the night before.

  He had barely lain down on the bed, however, when there was a knock at the door. Given that he had put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign, this was either exceptionally inconsiderate housekeeping or some kind of emergency. His sleepiness was instantly banished.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Jabber, Ossie. I spotted the minibus coming up the drive. Can I come in?’

  Harry got up and opened the door. Lloyd made a heavy-footed, downcast entrance and sank into one of the armchairs flanking the mullioned window.

  ‘Christ, what a day it’s been.’ He rubbed one hand across his forehead. ‘You see these … drawers they use to store corpses … in cop shows on the telly … but you never think some day you’re going to find yourself watching a real one sliding open … and an old chum’s face staring up at you.’

  ‘It must have been grim.’

  ‘And then some.’

  ‘What sort of injuries …’

  ‘Nothing too gruesome. They’d cleaned him up quite a bit, I think. Here’ – Lloyd tapped an area above his left eyebrow – ‘was still a mess, though. Must have smacked it on a rail or something. What a way to go, hey?’

  ‘You said it.’

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘OK. A drive along the valley. Pub lunch. A National Trust castle. Tea and scones. It was fine. Like a regular OAPs’ outing. I’m sorry you couldn’t join us. We all were.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ Lloyd coughed. �
�I didn’t come to make you feel guilty for having a nice day, Ossie. After the horror show at the morgue, Geddes had some more questions for me.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Mostly about this.’ Lloyd pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘It’s a photocopy of something they found on Crooked. Geddes wants me to pass it round. See if it rings a bell with anyone. Take a look.’

  It was an official notification of some kind; originally enclosed perhaps with a letter. The name that appeared in capitals at the head of the page seized Harry’s attention at once.

  CHIPCHASE SHELTERED

  HOLDINGS LTD

  Creditors of and investors in the above-named company, now in receivership, are invited to attend a meeting at the Thistle Hotel, Fry Street, Middlesbrough, at 2.30 p.m. on Saturday 22 February 2003, at which a representative of the officially appointed receivers, Grey & Williamson, chartered accountants, of Marston House, Bright Street, Middlesbrough, will be available to answer questions concerning the company’s remaining assets and outstanding liabilities.

  ‘I had to tell them Fission was one of us, Ossie,’ said Lloyd, when he had given Harry more than enough time to read and digest the contents. ‘There was no way round it.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I had to tell them he’d hightailed it off to attend the funeral of his sister as well.’

  ‘A sister I told you I’d never heard of.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I didn’t mention that. Or your garage business. Geddes never asked the right questions. I didn’t want to make trouble for you by volunteering anything.’

  ‘Thanks. Though where the trouble for me is in this …’

  ‘Geddes didn’t buy the sister story, Ossie. He assumed Fission vamoosed to avoid meeting Crooked because he was one of his creditors. Matter of fact, that’s what I reckon too.’

  ‘It certainly looks like it.’

  ‘Question is, did Fission drag any of us apart from Crooked into … whatever Chipchase Sheltered Holdings was?’

  ‘Who knows? And what if he did? It’s not the first time one of Barry’s little enterprises has gone bust owing people money. And this was … two years ago. Why was Peter carrying it around with him? What was he planning to do when he met Barry?’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Did Geddes have any suggestions?’

  ‘No. None he gave me the benefit of, anyway. But he did ask me a strange question as I was leaving. Bloody strange. It’s been bugging me ever since. I can’t figure out what he was getting at.’

  Harry waited for Lloyd to continue, but there was only silence. For several long, slow seconds. Then Harry’s patience snapped. ‘And the question was?’

  ‘What?’ Lloyd jumped in his seat. ‘Oh, sorry. Of course. Yes. The question. Well, he asked me … how I could be sure Fission wasn’t on the train when it left Dundee.’

  Chapter Eleven

  THE STRICTLY LOGICAL answer to Geddes’s question was that no one could be sure. Chipchase had told Dangerfield he was flying to Manchester. But he could have travelled south by train instead and boarded the London to Aberdeen train at Dundee – or Edinburgh, come to that. Almost anything was possible. But where was Geddes’s speculation leading? He surely did not suspect Chipchase of murdering Askew. The very idea was absurd. Except that Geddes did not know Chipchase as well as Harry did, so perhaps the absurdity was not apparent to him. He reckoned he was on to something. Or someone. And the obvious candidate was the former proprietor of Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd – long since in receivership.

  The true explanation for his old friend’s daylight flit from Aberdeen seemed clear to Harry. It was what Geddes had grudgingly suggested himself. Chipchase had persuaded Askew to invest in one of his dodgy enterprises, with predictable results he had no wish to discuss during the weekend at Kilveen Castle that had loomed ahead of him. Cue dead sister and grieving dash to Manchester. It was as simple as that.

  Ironically, as things turned out, he would never have had to discuss the matter with Askew. But Askew, of course, might not have been the only veteran of Operation Clean Sheet duped into trusting Chipchase with his money, which Harry could have told them from personal experience was an act of folly. It would be interesting to find out how many had fallen for the silver-tongued old rogue’s patter – assuming anyone was prepared to admit it.

  The clouds thinned as the afternoon turned towards evening. Mellow sunlight bathed the castle. A call from the reception desk alerted Harry to a change of venue for pre-dinner drinks. They were to be held on the roof. The upper reaches of the tower had been out of bounds to Professor Mac’s students during Operation Clean Sheet and the door leading to the roof permanently locked. This was actually their first chance to sample its panoramic views. Dangerfield, it was revealed, had planned that they should do so all along, on a ‘weather permitting’ basis. And the weather had happily permitted.

  Harry phoned Donna before leaving his room and came clean about Askew’s death. He presented it as a complete mystery, which it was, of course, while failing to mention the connection with Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd. ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he explained lamely, only for her to retort, as well she might, ‘But now I’m worried about what else you mightn’t be telling me.’ He assured her there was nothing, by which he really meant nothing he judged she needed to know. A weekend of domestic normality was about to unfold in Vancouver. Daisy would be going back to school on Monday after the Easter break. Donna would be preparing to stretch her students’ minds at UBC. Fretting over what might be happening to him in Scotland would not be good for them. Accordingly, Harry struck a jaunty tone throughout the conversation – and hoped it was more convincing over a long-distance telephone line than it would have been face to face.

  He spent longer talking to Donna and Daisy than he had anticipated and was consequently the last to make it to the roof party.

  It was strange to have spent three months at Kilveen Castle without ever stepping out onto the flagged and balustraded platform at the top of the tower. The gilded weathercock on the next turret was shimmering in the sun, the flag of St Andrew above them stirring lazily in the slightest of breezes. A golden hue had been cast over the ruckled carpet of farmland around the castle, while the mountains to the north and west and the undersides of the clouds were purpling in the evening light.

  Waitresses were on hand with champagne and canapés. Matthews, the hotel manager, was schmoozing with his guests. There was laughter amid the burble of conversation and the popping of corks. A phrase drifted into Harry’s ear as he accepted a glass of bubbly and took a first sip. ‘Crooked would have wanted us to carry on, I’ll bet.’ The words were Judd’s, but there were nods and murmurs of endorsement all round.

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’

  Harry turned to find Erica standing close beside him, looking intently at him as she rotated her nearly empty glass back and forth by the stem. Judd for one, Harry sensed, would approve of the closer-fitting outfit she was wearing this evening – and its lower neckline. ‘Hello,’ he said, smiling. ‘Isn’t it lovely up here?’

  She smiled back at him. ‘It is.’

  ‘As for Peter, I don’t know. It’s the sort of thing people say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. So, here’s another platitude. Tell me about your day. Braemar, Balmoral, Craigievar and a pub somewhere in the middle, according to Johnny. Is that right?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘All new territory for you?’

  ‘Absolutely. Professor Mac and your boss kept us chained to our desks. There were no jaunts into the countryside during Operation Clean Sheet.’

  ‘And getting out onto this roof with its unforgettable views is a first too?’

  ‘Not according to some,’ Tancred cut in, rounding a corner of the balustrade to join them and flashing Erica a raffish smile. ‘Jabber’s just been telling Magister and me that he’s been up here before.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry watched Erica’s gaze sl
ide past Tancred towards Lloyd and Wiseman. ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘He was more than somewhat vague as to specifics. Indeed, it may be no more than stress-induced déjà vu. He hasn’t had the carefree day the rest of us have enjoyed, after all. I certainly don’t envy him his visit to the mortuary in Dundee. Are you familiar with the city of jam, jute and journalism, Erica?’

  ‘Not at all. Actually, excuse me, will you? Dr Starkie’s looking lost.’ And with that she was gone, threading a path through the Clean Sheeters and waitresses towards Dr Starkie, who was standing alone near the flagpole.

  ‘I think you frightened her off, Tapper,’ said Harry.

  ‘Nonsense. More likely my arrival on the scene was the excuse she was waiting for to shake you off.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘What she sees in that bloodless creep Starkie I can’t imagine.’

  ‘A mentor, I should think.’

  ‘Should you? Well, your judgement isn’t exactly flawless, is it, Ossie? Choosing Fission as a business partner doesn’t say much for your powers of discrimination. From what Jabber’s been telling us, he’s still up to his old tricks. What was it? Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd? Were you involved in that?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t. Were you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘No reason to be so tetchy, then, is there?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’d be more of an expert than me on the etiquette of occasions like this, Tapper, but isn’t the idea to have a pleasant little chat over a glass of champoo and admire the view?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tancred smiled through clenched teeth. ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’

  They were joined by Judd, Gregson and Fripp, sparing Harry further verbal fencing with Tancred. He swiftly drifted to the margins of the group and, noticing that Wiseman had left Lloyd to join Dangerfield and Matthews, walked across to where the Welshman was leaning heavily against the wall flanking the door at the top of the spiral staircase. His face was flushed, sweat sheening his upper lip. His gaze was skittering and unfocused.