Bob squinted at the picture. ‘Reminds me a bit of my cousin Charlie, when he were younger,’ he said.
‘This is a fairly recent photograph,’ I said patiently. ‘I was wondering if you’d seen him around the village in the last few days.’
The old man shook his head. ‘There’s been nobody like that round here, I can assure you.’
Of course he wouldn’t have seen Paul Taylor, I thought. Someone on the run from the police wouldn’t go parading himself up and down the village – he’d be in hiding.
But hiding where, exactly?
The old man had said that Lydia had not kept in touch with any of her old friends so …
The aunt’s house! She would have left it to Lydia – her only close relative – in her will, and Lydia may have decided to keep it empty, rather than put it on the market. That would make a perfect bolthole.
‘Where did Lyd … where did Linda’s aunt live?’ I asked.
‘Her aunt?’ old Bob repeated. ‘Linda Smith never had no auntie. There was her, her mam and her dad. That was all.’
‘Then who looked after her when her parents died?’
Bob chuckled. ‘Died? Thelma and Chris Smith?’ He turned his head towards the landlord, who was polishing glasses. ‘This feller thinks Thelma and Chris Smith are dead, Harry,’ he said.
‘Well, if they are, it’s news to me,’ the landlord said.
‘Have you still got that postcard they sent last Christmas?’ Bob asked.
‘Must be somewhere round here,’ the landlord replied. ‘I’ll see if I can lay my hands on it.’
‘Of course, it broke their hearts when Linda cut them off like she did,’ Bob told me. ‘They used to look right miserable, but over time, they come to terms with it. Chris used to say, “Well, as long as she’s happy now, that’s the main thing”.’
The landlord stepped from behind the bar and walked over to the table.
‘This is it,’ he said, handing me a postcard.
On the front of the card were various views of a place called Torrevieja, in Spain.
On the back, next to the address, someone had written:
No snow for us this year. Best thing we ever did, moving here!
A merry Christmas and a happy new year to all our old friends in the Prince Albert.
Thelma and Chris
So if they were still alive – if one hadn’t been killed in a plane crash and the other drunk himself to death – why hadn’t they been at Lydia’s wedding? But that was obvious. Lydia had chosen to re-invent herself and didn’t want anyone around who could give the lie to the new person she had become.
‘What did Mr Smith do for a living before he retired?’ I asked.
‘Chris? He ran the garage. You’ll like as not have seen it on the way into the village. It were a family business, really. His missus served the petrol, and him and Linda did the repairs.’
‘She … she … did the repairs?’
‘That’s right,’ the old man agreed. ‘I never much liked her as a person, but I will say this for her: she was a belting little mechanic – better even than her old dad.’
I told myself at the time that, while it might seem sensible to talk to more people in the village, it was too much of a risk, because a man on the run from the police can’t afford to stay in any one place for too long. Looking back, I think I was just making excuses for myself – and the real reason I felt the urge to get away as quickly as I could was that the moment I left the safe confines of the pub, I sensed the evil eye on me again.
It should have been a ten-minute drive from the village to the centre of Darwen, but I was so deep in thought that it took me nearer to twenty.
Why had Lydia pretended, for so long, that she knew nothing about cars? I asked myself. Was it because she had always planned to commit murder?
No, I didn’t believe it was.
I thought about all the members of the aristocracy I had rubbed shoulders with during my brief university career. They knew they were God’s chosen people, and that nothing could change that. So it was all right for them to get rolling drunk, to have the sexual morals of a mink – and to get their hands dirty messing around with the engines of old cars.
Ah, but it was different for some of the aspiring members of the middle class. They didn’t have five hundred years of history to buoy them up. Their grandfathers had been miners, and carpenters and day labourers. And if they drank to excess, were promiscuous, or demonstrated any knowledge of how things worked, they were saying, in effect, that they were still part of the class they were claiming to have left behind.
Yes, Lydia had thought it would be demeaning to admit that she could fix engines, and the fact that no one thought she could had come in very useful when she needed to sabotage the BMW.
Except that she couldn’t have sabotaged the BMW herself, could she – she was securely locked up in the health spa when that took place – but she could have shown Paul Taylor how to do it.
But again, I was faced with the unanswered – and seemingly unanswerable – question: why would Lydia and Paul have wanted to kill John, when they could have had all they’d wanted without running the risk of going to gaol?
Darwen library is made of dressed stone and capped by an impressive dome. It was built in 1908, when cotton was still king, and the mills sometimes worked round the clock to meet their orders, so in the modern, largely post-industrial town, it perhaps looks a little out of place.
Inside, it is like any other small town library, with bright displays, a children’s corner – and an archive room which has all previous editions of the local paper on microfilm.
It was in the archive room that I spent the next hour. I went immediately to the date of Lydia’s birth, and having found in the announcements section that Linda Smith had been born on exactly the same day, I scrolled through the papers to see what else I could find out about her.
The first thing I came across was a picture of a primary school nativity play in which she was the Virgin Mary. It was the sort of grimy black and white photograph that newspapers used to print before the technology improved, but it was clear enough for me to discern a difference between her and her classmates. The other children, dressed as shepherds and kings, were conscious of the camera and conscious of the fact that they were playing the game of dressing up. Linda – standing there holding a doll to represent the baby Jesus – was not playing games at all. It showed in her stance and the expression on her face that she was Mary.
I moved on, and found an article celebrating the fact that the Smiths’ garage had won the paper’s ‘Small Business of the Year’ competition. Linda and her parents are standing in front of the garage. Her mother is beaming, and her father is positively puffed up with pride, but the look on Linda’s face says that she shouldn’t have to do this – that it is all too humiliating.
I had seen enough. I left the library and started to make my way back to the quiet street where I had parked my car.
Things never worked out as you thought they would, I reflected as I walked. I had come to Lancashire to find Paul Taylor, and instead I had uncovered Lydia’s past. But, in a way, that was just as good – because now I had a hold over her, Lydia would have no choice but to tell me where she was hiding Paul.
It was as I turned the corner that I saw the boy hotwiring my Granada. I broke into a run – or as much of a run as my gammy leg would let me – but I was still about thirty yards away when the engine burst into life, and the car shot forward.
I stood in the road, waving my arms to make him stop, but it soon became clear that he wasn’t going to, and that if I stayed where I was, he would simply run me down.
I stepped quickly out of the way. As the car roared past, the boy turned to grin at me. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, and from the glazed expression in his eyes, I could tell he was high on something.
The Granada had almost reached the end of the road when it exploded. A column of flame rose high into t
he air, and the vehicle veered crazily to the right, before hitting a lamppost and turning over.
By the time I reached the wreckage, it was clear that nothing could be done for the poor kid.
TWENTY-FIVE
The table in the interview room at Warrington police station was scarred with countless cigarette burns from countless interrogations, and the man sitting at the opposite end of it looked as if he’d like to burn holes in me.
‘Do you know why you’re here, rather than in some cop shop in Lancashire?’ he demanded.
‘I assume it’s because you had something to do with it, Owen,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s right. You’re here because – God knows why – I persuaded the Lancashire constabulary that I’d get more out of questioning you than they ever could. So don’t go making a bloody liar out of me, Rob. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Didn’t you hear the messages on the news?’ Owen asked angrily. ‘All those appeals to contact the police? You should have done. God knows, I pulled all the strings I could to keep getting them repeated.’
‘I heard them,’ I admitted.
‘So why the bloody hell didn’t you come back?’
I couldn’t tell him the truth – not if I were to have even the slightest chance of keeping Marie out of gaol.
‘I was afraid to come back,’ I lied. ‘I thought you were going to arrest me for Bill Harper’s murder.’
Owen slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.
‘Arrest you!’ he said exasperatedly. ‘What do you think I think you are – some kind of homicidal lunatic?’ He broke off, as he realized the implications – given my mental history – of what he’d just said. ‘I’m sorry, Rob,’ he continued, contritely.
‘It’s all right,’ I assured him. ‘I stopped worrying about people looking oddly at me a long time ago.’ I took a deep breath. ‘If I hadn’t gone to Darwen today, that boy would still be alive, you know.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ he exploded again. ‘First it was Jill, then your brother, and now this little junkie in Lancashire! You didn’t put the bomb in the car, and you didn’t choose to steal it. You can’t hold yourself responsible for everything that happens to everybody.’
‘I know, but …’ I began.
‘What the bloody hell were you doing up in darkest Lancashire, anyway?’ Flint asked.
‘I was checking up on my sister-in-law,’ I said, sailing as close to the truth as I dared.
‘And did you learn something interesting about her?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Well, then, let’s bloody hear it!’
I told him that Lydia had once been plain Linda, and had worked in her father’s garage. I outlined how she had once been all set to marry a shop owner called Clem and had then decided that she could do better for herself. I had just finished my story when the phone rang.
Flint picked it up. ‘Yes … yes … I see … Thank you.’ He replaced the phone on its cradle. ‘That was the forensics department of the Lancashire police. They’ve been examining what’s left of your car, and though it’s too early to draw any definite conclusions, they think the bomb was fixed so it would blow up when the car reached a certain speed. I wonder why the bomber didn’t just fix it to the ignition, so it blew up when you turned the key.’
Because that would have meant me being killed in the village that held Lydia’s deep dark secret, and with all the fuss that would cause, it would be a secret no more. Far better, then, that I should be killed on some fast road miles from there, and if that caused a multiple pile-up in which other people were killed, that was just the way it had to be.
A great sadness overwhelmed me as I realized that the only way I could continue to protect Marie was to steer Flint away from Lydia. But after what she’d done – and might do next – I no longer had that option.
‘It was Lydia who planted the bomb,’ I said.
‘Your sister-in-law!’ Flint said incredulously. ‘I know you’ve just told me she’s supposed to be a pretty good mechanic, but even so, why would she want to kill you?’
‘You’ve seen her,’ I said. ‘You know how much she values her place in society.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I’d learned the secret she’s kept buried all these years, and she was terrified I’d tell all her friends.’
‘She’d never try to kill you just for that,’ Owen said.
‘She’s sacrificed her family and friends – everyone she grew up with – to her ambition. Do you realize just how much she must have hurt her parents by ruthlessly cutting them completely out of her life? Going from that to killing me isn’t such a big step.’
‘But how did she even know you’d be in Lancashire?’
‘She didn’t. But after our last couple of conversations, she must have guessed that I might be.’
‘And so she drove all over the county, looking for your car, and when she found it she planted the bomb.’
I shook my head. ‘She didn’t have to go looking for me. I could have visited every village between here and Scotland for all she cared – as long as I stayed away from that particular one.’
‘So what you’re saying is that she was hanging around the village on the off-chance that you’d turn up?’
‘She’s put so much effort into leaving Linda behind and becoming Lydia that that would seem a very small thing to her,’ I said.
‘I still can’t accept it,’ Flint told me.
‘Well, maybe I’m wrong,’ I admitted. ‘But if Lydia didn’t do it, she’ll have an alibi, won’t she?’
It was early evening when Flint, accompanied by Sergeant Matthews, knocked on my sister-in-law’s front door.
When Lydia answered, she was wearing a towelling robe. She didn’t seem particularly worried they were there, Flint thought. If anything, she was merely displaying the irritation that important people feel when they’re bothered by the petty details which everyone else is forced to deal with as a matter of course.
She noticed Flint looking at her robe. ‘I’ve been out in the garden, catching the last rays of the afternoon sun,’ she explained in a lazy drawl – and even in this she seemed to be pointing out that she was one of the leisured class, while he was definitely not.
‘Catching the last rays of the afternoon sun,’ Flint repeated. ‘It’s not quite like the old days, when the grieving widow shut herself off from the world for a couple of years, is it?’
Lydia’s face hardened. ‘I wasn’t anticipating another visit from you, Mr Flint,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t anticipating making one, Mrs Conroy,’ Flint countered.
They all stood there in silence for perhaps ten seconds, then Lydia, realizing that Flint was not going to be the first to break, said, ‘So why are you here? Have you got some more questions?’
‘That’s right, Mrs Conroy.’
‘Well, be quick about asking them, because – to be honest with you – it’s getting rather chilly standing here.’
‘I think it might be better if we conducted our business inside, madam,’ Flint said.
‘All right,’ Lydia said reluctantly, ‘go through to the lounge – you should know where it is by now – while I get changed. You can pour yourselves a drink, if you want to.’
Once they were in the lounge, Matthews looked longingly at the drinks cabinet and then questioningly at Flint.
The chief inspector shook his head.
‘She’d like that,’ he said. ‘It would be a case of her dispensing her bounty to the peasantry – and I’m not about to give her that satisfaction. Besides, I make it a rule never to accept drinks from people I might soon be arresting for murder and attempted murder.’
‘Do you really think she planted that bomb, sir?’ Matthews asked.
‘I’m not sure what I think,’ Flint confessed. ‘When Rob Conroy first suggested it, I thought he was being paranoid, but we’ve learned a couple of things sinc
e then which possibly suggest that he’s right.’
‘She doesn’t act guilty.’
‘No,’ Flint agreed. ‘What she acts is Lydia Conroy – the lady of the manor. It’s a role she’s been working on for the last six years, and she’s got it damn near perfect now.’
There was the sound of high heels clicking down the stairs, then Lydia entered the lounge. She was wearing a green shot-silk dress, which was just short enough to reveal a pair of brown knees.
‘Have you been working on your tan all day, Mrs Conroy?’ Flint asked, feeding her some rope with which she just might hang herself.
‘No, I’ve only been in the garden for the last hour or so. The rest of the day, I’ve been out.’ Lydia frowned. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you told me what this is all about, chief inspector?’
‘Did you happen to listen to the radio or television news this afternoon?’ Flint asked, ignoring the question.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Lydia replied – and the slight flicker of her eyes, when she spoke, told Flint that she was lying.
‘So you won’t have heard there’s been a car bomb in Darwen, Lancashire?’
‘No, I hadn’t heard. How terrible!’
‘The car bomb went off near the library. Do you happen to know Darwen at all, Mrs Conroy?’
He could almost see inside her head, as her brain weighed up the choices she had.
‘Yes, I used to live somewhere quite close to Darwen – though it was a long time ago,’ she said finally.
‘The car that was blown up was a Ford Granada.’
‘Yes?’
‘In fact, it was your brother-in-law’s Ford Granada.’
Lydia put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh my God, it can’t be true!’ she gasped. ‘But it is true, isn’t it? Poor, poor Rob!’
‘I’m sorry, madam, I seem to have expressed myself very badly,’ Flint said. ‘The car was blown up – it was a right bloody mess by all accounts – but Rob wasn’t hurt.’
‘But it said on the …’ Lydia began, before she realized she was about to make a very big mistake and clamped her mouth firmly shut.
The Company Page 24
