Dying to Write Page 15

  If I was going into battle with Chris Groom, I’d better get my war paint on.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before I tackled Chris I gave myself five minutes on the floor with paperback books under my head. I wanted to face him calmly. Then I would have the advantage over him if he was still angry – and somehow I couldn’t imagine him doing stress-reducing exercises.

  At last I got up and checked myself over. New tights, clean shoes, the polo-neck neat and tidy, and the skirt – the skirt as short as Hugh could expect, if not quite in Nyree’s league.

  I closed the door behind me and walked coolly along the corridor, not even looking back at the PCs. All the doors in reception sighed at me. The WPC again tried to intercept me, but I ignored her and, letting the front door shut behind me, made straight for the stable block. Although it was no longer raining, the cloud was heavy enough to make it dusk at seven o’clock. All the lights were on, all the computers humming purposelessly away.

  Chris sat centre stage, apparently studying a print-out. But he didn’t seem to be making much progress. His shoulders were hunched and his head was too heavy for the hand that was supporting it.

  Poor Chris! All this strain, and I had added to it. And I was supposed to be his friend.

  On the other hand, he was supposed to be mine, too.

  I collected styrofoam cups and poured coffee. Three sugars for him, one for me. I parked his and a plastic stirrer on his table, and stood just behind his shoulder, stirring mine.

  ‘What happened to the PC I was talking to this morning?’ I asked, as if we were in the middle of what we were saying. ‘I take it that chalk outline –’

  ‘– means someone socked him,’ said Chris, without hesitation, though he had jumped slightly. His voice was under control too. We seemed to have arrived at the same tacit decision that there was nothing to be gained, and everything to be lost, if we kept up our hostility. ‘Oh, he’s all right; he’ll live. Back on duty in a couple of weeks or so. But he’s got a nasty cut and he was out cold when they found him.’

  ‘“They”?’

  ‘Mr Woodhouse, actually.’

  ‘Did someone mean to kill him?’

  ‘Hard to tell. Unless you’re a real expert it’s almost impossible to work out how hard to hit just to lay someone out. And where – the exact point. How thick the skull is. Fortunately Halford’s got a thick skull.’ He leaned back and smiled slightly, looking up at me.

  Yes, we were to be friends still. Maybe we’d have to talk about our anger later. At the moment the bruises were too painful to touch.

  I pulled up a chair. We both sat sideways on to the table.

  ‘Did he contact anyone before he was socked? To pass on my message?’

  ‘Message?’

  ‘About my overshirt and Sidney and how I was running away because I was too bloody scared to stay here a moment longer?’

  ‘Sophie, I’d bet my pension you never told anyone you were scared.’

  ‘A palpable hit. I told him I was doing a runner but would be back. And I told him to look after Sidney. And I mentioned my shirt. Told him the room ought to be sealed till you’d seen it.’

  ‘Shazia told us about your shirt. The sight of it brought on Agnes’s asthma again. Gimson, out of purest professional etiquette, called a GP from a practice in Sandwell. When he’d sorted her out he said she’d be better away from all these alarums and excursions. So Tina ran her home.’

  ‘Tina? Bit of a low-grade job for her, surely? And isn’t she supposed to be interrogating Courtney Rabone – slowly?’

  ‘Tina doesn’t look like a policewoman; she doesn’t sound like one. That’s why she’s so good on a job like this. Agnes will witter away –’

  ‘Not Agnes!’

  ‘OK, she’ll talk without realising how much Tina’s picking up. Anyway, she’ll be back in Leicester by now. She left you a note. Shazia’s got it.’

  I shook my head sadly. I liked Agnes. Maybe I’d get in touch with her when all this was sorted out. But then, I’ve been on a lot of courses and exchanged a lot of addresses, and can count on the fingers of one hand how many relationships have actually been followed up.

  ‘What about Courtney? Have you decided what to do?’ I prompted.

  Chris crushed his styrofoam mug and hurled it into a bin. It ricocheted out. I lobbed mine in, gently and accurately.

  ‘Well? Do I gather this is something I shouldn’t ask you about?’

  ‘It’s never stopped you before.’

  ‘What a good job I’m discreet, then. Come on. Courtney’s well on the way to being a friend of mine –’

  ‘A gay, black ex-con! Jesus, Sophie, you don’t half choose some weird friends.’

  ‘I chose you.’

  Whatever he’d meant to say, that silenced him. He sighed and then looked straight at me. ‘OK. And I did what I did as much out of respect for your judgement as anything. And it’s a hell of a risk for both of us.’

  Not sending Courtney straight back could mean the end of Chris’s career if he were found out. At best a reprimand so severe it’d blight his chances of promotion for ever.

  ‘Both of you?’

  ‘His life, for a start. Tina managed to wrinkle out of him – told you she was good, didn’t I? – that the people who used to, er, employ him wish to punish him for talking so freely. Right? Hence the gun, remember. And he had a whisper they might be coming this way. So the official deal is he stays here as bait. Then he goes back up to Durham, where he and the authorities will sort it all out.’

  ‘If he’s still alive, of course,’ I said dryly. I wasn’t happy at the prospect of Courtney as unarmed target.

  ‘I hope and pray the chances of a gang attack at Eyre House are remote,’ said Chris, seriously.

  ‘His employers weren’t Japanese rat-hating kidnappers, were they?’

  At last we both started to laugh, properly, without any strain. A couple of officers at the far end looked round. One of them, Ian Dale, winked at me.

  Then I remembered Sidney. I was irritated that such a small and smelly creature should arouse such protective feelings.

  ‘Speaking of rat-hating –’

  ‘Ade’s been out looking for Sidney,’ said Chris, smiling gently.

  ‘That chalk rectangle represented his cage?’

  ‘Yes. Empty. But Ade thinks he’ll make his way back here, since he’s done it twice already.’

  ‘If he’s allowed to,’ I said.

  Chris nodded. ‘They say the rat in the fridge died of natural causes by the way. The business with the head and feet came later.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  ‘Love one. But supper –’ Supper and Hugh.

  ‘OK. Another time, maybe.’

  There was a lot of pain in those syllables. Friendship or lust? I compromised: ‘I’ll find out what time it’ll be ready, shall I? There might be time for a quick half.’

  By a stroke of fortune, the sci-fi freak had been so immersed in his work that he hadn’t turned up till five, and the girls had not unreasonably refused to do all the work. So supper wouldn’t be ready till eight thirty. Until then, Shazia said, Matt and Hugh were doing tutorial work for those students who wanted it. Tabitha would no doubt be having immense difficulties that couldn’t be solved by Matt, I told myself sourly. But I applauded Hugh’s decision to work after the afternoon’s ordeal. The Black Country Nonconformist work ethic at its best.

  So Chris drove me down to a pub: the Miner’s Lamp. It was clean and warm and they served good Bank’s, and I settled down gratefully with a half of mild. Chris had a pint. Our eyes met as we toasted each other across the small round table.

  ‘To friendship,’ I said.

  ‘Friendship,’ Chris repeated. ‘You know, you really had me scared, Sophie. I thought he’d got you. And I know those lads overreacted, but I think I’d have done the same. And I think you would, too.’

  I smiled. Perhaps he was right. It was the nearest I’d ever get
to an apology, anyway.

  ‘But why pick on Hugh?’

  ‘Because you left at much the same time. Coincidence, maybe, but there have been too many coincidences.’

  I looked at him hard. There was something he hadn’t told me. ‘Go on.’

  ‘OK. Another coincidence. He drives a big red car. Not a Seven Series BMW, but a Five Series BMW. And I remember you telling me –’

  The big red car at the main gates; the big red car down by the motorway. Could the man investigating the ice house have been Hugh? I drank and swallowed carefully. Perhaps it could. But if Hugh had been around Eyre House before he arrived officially …

  ‘– of course, a lot of people drive big red cars,’ Chris continued. ‘And there’s absolutely nothing in our records to suggest Brierley is anything except a decent, law-abiding citizen.’

  ‘A very rich law-abiding citizen, if he drives that sort of car.’

  ‘You’re not going to go all Marxist on me and claim there’s no such thing as an honest rich man?’

  ‘Eyes of needles,’ I said lightly. ‘Was Christ the first Marxist? Here, let me get you another.’

  ‘Just a half.’

  With luck my hands would no longer be trembling when I carried our glasses back to the table. To give myself a little longer to settle after the news about Hugh, I tried to buy some crisps, but they’d run out. The barman offered two alternatives: pork scratchings, the traditional Black Country snack, or cellophane-wrapped baps. I didn’t fancy the cholesterol in the scratchings, wonderful though I’d thought them when I was a kid.

  Chris picked up the bap suspiciously when I dropped it on our table.

  ‘Try it. You ought to have something to eat. Bet you missed lunch. And you’re driving, remember.’

  I watched, amused, as Chris picked at the cellophane which enclosed chicken tikka, according to the label. A line from a poem or song worried at the back of my brain – something about feeding your man. But one of the ways I like to show my affection is to offer my friends food; Chris was no exception.

  He eyed the bap with misgiving.

  ‘Better than an empty stomach,’ I prompted him.

  ‘My brother would quote that bit from the Old Testament about oxen and herbs,’ he said.

  ‘“Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,”’ I said. ‘And before you gasp at my knowledge of the Bible, Brontë quotes it in Jane Eyre. Any more tourists, by the way?’

  I refused to touch on the love part of the quotation. Even to make a joke. And the tourists still bothered me.

  ‘There was a little fracas this morning,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I sneaked out past it.’

  ‘But that was –’ He sounded immeasurably relieved. Hugh must have left later.

  ‘Horribly early. Anyway, these ’ere tourists,’ I prompted.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. They’re not just here for the photo opportunities. But I’ve no idea what they do want. We’ve asked Lloyd House to find us an interpreter. Next time someone turns up we can question them properly. By the way,’ he added, an edge to his voice, ‘do you know why a CNN reporter should telephone from Japan?’

  ‘If you try that bap, I’ll explain.’

  As gingerly as if he were expecting the thing to explode, he pulled apart the two halves of the roll to liberate huge chunks of chicken in what looked mayonnaise. We sniffed. He nodded, replaced the top half and bit in. He smiled, and broke off a large piece for me.

  ‘Try it. And then tell me about CNN.’

  I nibbled, and smiled. ‘Yes, it’s OK, isn’t it? Not that I’d have identified it as tikka without a label, but it’s good in its own right.’

  ‘And CNN?’

  I reminded him about Kenji, my Japanese rabbit-loving lover. Ex-lover. ‘He’s replaced me with an American woman who’s a reporter for CNN. I asked Kenji if there was anything in the Japanese papers to connect Nyree’s husband with Japan. I didn’t think they were going to bother. That’s why I spent the morning at the Guardian on CD-ROM in the college library. Ended up with asthma and little else.’

  Chris spent several seconds picking up a minute crumb and parking it on the side of his plate. He was going to ask me something he shouldn’t.

  ‘Did Brierley know you were going there?’ he said at last.

  I picked up my glass and tilted it, as if to tip it over his head. ‘I told about six people in Harborne that Hugh and I left separately for Birmingham and we met by chance while I was hanging round waiting for a bus home. I told you. I expect you to believe me, even if they didn’t. I didn’t even know I was going to William Murdock until I was on the bus. Dust in the library gave me my usual allergy. Agnes had my spray. Chris, she had a strip of my tablets too –’

  ‘A bubble pack?’ he asked. His eyes twinkled in self-mockery. He was clearly feeling better.

  ‘As it happens, yes. But nice big tablets, not like Nyree’s phenobarbitones. I suppose no one mentioned finding them in the lounge?’

  He shook his head. But it didn’t mean anything. Agnes could have put them in her bag. If she didn’t, probably Shazia had picked them up. But I wanted to know what had happened to them.

  I risked a glance at my watch. Chris saw me.

  ‘Time to run you back?’ he asked sadly.

  ‘No, the car won’t turn into a pumpkin yet. And I suspect eight thirty is optimistic. But I want to be there eventually. As your eyes and ears, as much as anything else.’

  ‘Humph. And of course you’ll share anything you pick up.’

  ‘I usually do.’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Another palpable hit.’

  ‘Why did you bring that appalling vehicle?’

  ‘George’s van? It’s not that bad. It’s waterproof, thickly insulated and has an engine and four wheels. Beats my bike any day!’

  He finished the bap and sloshed the dregs of his mild thoughtfully round the glass. He was about to say something else I wouldn’t like.

  ‘How would you feel,’ he began, ‘if I asked you to have a minder again?’

  ‘Why me? Why not all the others? The women at least.’

  ‘Because no one else has had threats. Someone is clearly after you. I don’t want you to end up –’ He stopped abruptly.

  The thought of round-the-clock company filled me with revulsion. I seized on a diversion: ‘I think Kate’s still alive – and I reckon you do too.’

  He looked up and smiled. ‘OK – you tell me why.’

  ‘Because all your best efforts haven’t found her body. There have been a lot of oriental people around here giving the impression they’re looking for live women, not dead ones. Because a number of things have gone missing. That asthma spray, for instance. Because – No, your turn now.’

  ‘Same reason. Your tampons. Who’d want to nick something they could buy?’

  ‘It could be one of the women “borrowing” and forgetting to tell me. That toothy woman, maybe. No, Tabitha!’ I said spitefully.

  He shook his head. ‘You’ll keep this under your hat? That chemist’s, down the road. A man tried to buy some, then changed his mind and bought a stack of large-size disposable nappies.’

  ‘Any description?’

  Chris shook his head. ‘Nope. God knows how long they’ll let the pharmacist continue to practise. I’d say she was nearly blind. I suppose her dispenser does most of the work. Scared me rigid, though. Don’t let her give you any tablets, eh, Sophie?’

  ‘Nappies?’ That was what I ought to have picked up on before. ‘Why the hell buy nappies when you want tampons?’

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me.’

  ‘Only that – Christ!’ I didn’t even want to consider the possibilities. Not if I wanted to sleep tonight. I pulled myself up short. Hadn’t I intended to use the night to spy on whoever might have used Kate’s car?

  ‘We also have a person who is nicking biscuits,’ Chris said. ‘Shazia tells me three packets so
far have disappeared from the kitchen before she could even open them.’

  ‘Perhaps writers nibble for inspiration? I should try it.’

  ‘Three whole packets seems excessive. Shazia wasn’t going to tell me, but it seems you bollocked her for not passing on information.’

  ‘Did I?’ Oh, dear – if only I could escape my teacher persona when I’m not teaching. I shall turn into a flogger and hanger if I’m not careful, a blue-rinsed scourge of liberal home secretaries. D’you see me at Tory Party Conferences, Chris?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ he said.

  The drive back was short and uneventful. He offered to drop me a hundred yards from the house, in case I didn’t wish to be seen as his nark.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, staying put – the car was warm, and rain was slicing down again – ‘everyone knows we’re acquainted. Everyone knows everything on a course like this. Like everyone will know I spent the night with Hugh and Matt last night.’

  ‘Hugh and Matt?’

  ‘Hugh and Matt,’ I said firmly. ‘So rumour’s got a bit above itself, has it? We all got boozed, and fell asleep writing a poem. There should be a copy on Matt’s notepad. Matt and I shared the sofa; Hugh was on the floor. I woke early needing the loo, and saw my overshirt. The rest you know.’

  Chris yawned. What time had he come on duty?

  Then I yawned too. And my stomach rumbled vehemently. We both laughed.

  ‘Chris, I want to talk to you again.’

  ‘So I should hope.’

  ‘Because there are odds and ends floating around my head, and they may tie up with things in your head. I’ll try and make a list.’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ he said. No sarcasm; just sincerity.

  I wished I could hug him without raising his hopes. I liked him immensely, loved him even, but not in the sense he wanted love. Why should I fancy someone like Hugh, who was hardly more than an acquaintance and whom I perhaps ought not to trust at all, and not poor Chris, as worthy a man as I’ve ever met, apart from George, that is?

  ‘Better go in,’ I said.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve something to say!’