Dying Fall Read online

  ‘Soph, for pity’s sake. She was a bad woman. Killed your mate and that kid. She got what was coming to her. Period. Here – you teach English: what d’you call it when you get what’s coming to you?’

  ‘Nemesis.’

  ‘No. Summat to do with hoisting. That’s it. When you try to blow up someone’s castle and the bomb goes off too soon?’

  ‘Hoist with your own petard.’ I laughed, but not with amusement. ‘I rest my case, m’lud. Still, I’m sure your colleagues will turn up something interesting, like they did on Bristol Road.’ And then I said, ‘Take me to the fitness centre. Now. Fast.’ It was the tone I use when I don’t want any argument. I didn’t get any.

  ‘Funny thing that,’ said Elaine, one of the other instructors, ‘you’re the second person to ask after Dean.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Like I told him, this man, we don’t normally disclose that sort of information.’

  ‘I know he’s not at home. He wants to see me. It’s a matter of life and death.’

  She walked slowly over to her desk. ‘H’m. Funny, must be his day. That bloke, he said he’d got to pay him some money, or something.’

  I felt colder than ever. ‘Settle a debt or something’ would be more like it. ‘Now,’ she said slowly, dithering with little heaps of paper, ‘where’d I put it? Can’t think, for the life of me.’

  I’d never done this before; I thought it was only done on TV. But I fished a crisp new twenty-pound note from my purse and rustled it. In a second it had gone, to be replaced by a scrap torn from a paper bag. An address in Handsworth.

  Even as Tina turned the car I knew we wouldn’t get there in time. I used my teaching voice again. In a second, Tina was summoning support. When someone at the other end balked, she added, with a voice like mine, ‘On DCI Groom’s authority. Now.’

  On the whole I was glad I hadn’t had to say that.

  There is no quick route to Handsworth. There are canals and railway lines to cross, for one thing, and that means bridges, old and narrow bridges. So the maximum of traffic is funnelled on to the Outer Ring Road. Which is where we were sitting now. The traffic lights changed and changed again. If we couldn’t get through, how would anyone else?

  ‘Motorbikes and blue lights,’ said Tina tersely. ‘But,’ she added, catching my fear, ‘getting an ambulance through might be trickier. Why the bloody hell they can’t afford that sky ambulance is beyond me. Dave, he’s my other brother, he’s on the ambulances, top end of the M5, he says –’

  But we were moving again. And Tina put all her concentration into forcing her way to Dean.

  We were too late, of course. But a motorbike paramedic patrol had got to him, and there was hope, they said. The only question was whether to take him to the nearby Dudley Road Hospital or to the Accident Hospital, further away but with a specialist major-injuries unit. They chose the latter. Six motorcycles accompanied his ambulance to close roads so he could pass. Renal damage. Ruptured spleen. A fractured skull. The sort of damage boots can do. And it was all Chris’s responsibility. At least that was what he said. He should have taken that phone call, should have taken time to listen.

  ‘I shouldn’t have got him involved in the first place,’ I said.

  ‘Why did you?’

  ‘I just had this hunch about Jools. One I was afraid of voicing. In case … in case I was right.’

  ‘You never told us who he fingered. Sophie, why can’t you trust me?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t, it’s just – Chris, it’s loyalty, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sometimes misplaced. Come on. I have to know what Dean found so we can nail the bastards that –’

  ‘– that may have killed him. OK.’ I told him all I knew.

  ‘Did you say video shop? Address?’

  ‘I never knew, not all the details. Chris, I didn’t want it to be Iqbal’s.’

  ‘You didn’t want it to be Iqbal’s. Jesus, Sophie, we’ve had Iqbal’s little place under surveillance for months. Why d’you think we let him go to Amsterdam? Not for his health! What can you get in Amsterdam?’

  I turned away – I didn’t want him to see the shame on my face.

  We stood there together, in the mean street, letting the rain soak us. I hoped it would never stop. Suddenly I thought of another family.

  ‘Chris – Khalid’s family! What about them? What if anyone’s found out? They must know his registration number – what if they trace him?’

  At last Chris turned to me, his face softening into the grimmest amusement. ‘No need to worry about them, Sophie. As soon as I heard about – about this, I sent a patrol round. Armed, before you ask. Sophie, they’re safe. Safe, I tell you.’

  But at this point the world folded in on me, and not even Chris’s smelling salts could bring me round.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I came to in time to stop Chris dashing me to hospital. Food and a drink were what I needed, I insisted. But not necessarily in that order. Somewhere warm. Despite Chris’s jacket round my shoulders I was still shaking, and words I should have been able to say disappeared in a chatter of teeth.

  I wanted company, too. There would be no escaping yet another statement, so I couldn’t just bunk off and seek comfort with Shahida or – if I thought about my friends, I would cry. I mustn’t cry. I wanted George to hold me while I sobbed out the truth about Jools.

  ‘Sophie. Sophie?’

  I turned blindly: Chris was shaking my arm gently.

  I made a great effort. All his colleagues who weren’t cordoning off the street – rather belatedly, surely? – were enjoying a ringside view of their boss making a spectacle of himself. I found I cared too much for him to become a laughing stock: I’d have to find enough energy to make an effort. I managed to grin.

  ‘Food,’ I repeated. ‘Have you got time to have a bite with me? There must be some pub round here.’

  The one we found must have been the worst in the Midlands. Quite blatantly the other drinkers tried to work out my price. The tables were dirty, the mats, pretentious with hunting scenes, filthy. We ought to have got up and walked out. But we stayed there, and chose – waitress service! – from a greasy menu. I found I couldn’t face meat. But they microwaved my chicken-and-Stilton pie so long it was empty by the time it reached me. Chris ordered another, and pushed around chunks of his steak while we waited.

  Clearly a little conversation was called for, if only to disguise the culinary inadequacies. And I’d have to talk about Jools some time.

  ‘I can accept that Jools killed Wajid – and I suppose you lot have broken her alibi?’ I demanded, forgetting that Chris wouldn’t have followed my thought processes.

  He blinked hard, made an obvious effort to catch up, and repeated, ‘Alibi?’

  ‘That Tuesday. When the orchestra were playing at Lichfield and Wajid was killed.’

  ‘She went on the coach to Lichfield but was late on to the platform.’

  ‘So the assumption must be that she had left her motorbike somewhere in Lichfield, came back in their tea break, met Stobbard, killed Wajid and hurtled back to Lichfield.’

  ‘Not all that much of a hurtle on a motorbike. Not too much traffic at that time of night. But she was late on stage.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this?’

  ‘Because I didn’t see why we should worry you until we’d got absolute proof. And we haven’t yet. But we will.’

  I nodded. I hoped they would. But one thing still bothered me: ‘So why should Jools alter the signs in the Music Centre?’

  He was ready to bluster.

  ‘I just can’t see why she should have changed the signs,’ I insisted. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Of course. To lure George out into the open so she could commit the perfect murder.’

  ‘But we have a witness to say she left by the front door.’

  ‘There isn’t any reason why she shouldn’t have killed him first and then left by the front door. And then joined you at t
he pub. You said she was late.’

  ‘But not muddy. If she’d been out in all that mud, it would have stuck to her clothes. And her shoes.’

  ‘You keep a spare pair: she might. If not in a disgusting carrier bag.’

  I wished he’d stop smiling at me like that. Every muscle of his face betrayed him, and embarrassed me for him. I glowered at my plate. ‘I told you: something scared her that night. Scared her.’

  ‘In your judgement.’

  ‘OK. In my judgement. Let’s ask another question. Why kill George?’

  ‘Because he’d found out what she was up to.’

  ‘George wouldn’t have found out.’

  ‘Surely if someone had given him the wrong case –’

  ‘He wouldn’t even have opened it. He’d have known his own in the dark! His own instrument, anyway.’

  ‘OK. So it was dark and he opened it. And he found out it wasn’t his, but as he fastened it to return it to its owner, he discovered a substance which made him tackle her.’

  ‘I suspect,’ I said slowly, ‘that if he thought there was any drug involvement he might have called you people straight away. Even if Jools were a colleague.’

  ‘Are you sure you should use the subjunctive that way? Shouldn’t it be “was” a colleague?’ asked Chris.

  I shrugged, unamused.

  ‘All right. Perhaps she knew he was going to call us.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Or perhaps George hadn’t even noticed but she thought he must have done, and decided not to risk it.’

  ‘There are an awful lot of perhapses, Chris.’ I gave up on the second pie, and pushed it and the cold chips away. What I’d really like was a nice, comforting, sticky pudding: sago made with extra cream and golden syrup instead of sugar, or Bakewell pudding, or treacle tart with custard. ‘The other thing is, Tony does know one or two things about her. He told me he was going to tell you everything today.’

  ‘Bloody decent of him! Well, he hasn’t. I’ll have him called in. Ruffle his dignity a bit.’

  ‘He may have been trying to get in touch too,’ I said quietly. ‘He promised me he would.’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s a devious bastard, your Tony. Deserves a bit of a shake-up.’

  ‘He might be a foolish man but he’s not a bad one.’ I wanted to tell him that there was no point in treating Tony as if he were a rival to be bullied. Perhaps I could make a joke about it. ‘Your car’s nicer than his,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply. The waitress had slopped over, told us to have ice cream and slopped away with the still-full plates.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. But he might have been referring to the meal as much as his crassness.

  The ice cream was covered in shaving-foam cream.

  ‘So what about Wajid?’

  ‘You never let go, do you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘But that’s one of the more obvious answers, anyway. If Wajid got into that file he’d have seen her name. And he probably tried to blackmail her. Perhaps didn’t get anywhere: after all, we never found any trace of large sums of money. Though that bank he worked at – ICB – it’s going bust, they reckon. The Bank of England’s expected to stop it trading any moment now. The sad thing is a lot of ethnic-minority traders used it – there’ll be heartache in many Asian homes when the news breaks. But that’s strictly between you and me and my friend in the Fraud Squad.’

  ‘OK.’ Then I thought again. ‘But people like Aftab – his family are so nice, Chris – shouldn’t we warn –’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘How can we? Without starting panics and runs on the bank?’

  ‘There’ll be those anyway.’

  ‘No. No, Sophie, Please!’

  ‘And you’d be found out, and the force’d have to make you a scapegoat and sacrifice one of its best ever detectives,’ I said, with a little irony.

  ‘You flatter me. Look, it’s time we were off. You’ve got a statement to make. And I’ve still got some ends to tie up. All those loose ends you’ve picked up on – don’t think the DPP won’t find them too. What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

  Damn: I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask me. I didn’t want to rebuff him. I wanted him to realise that it was no go for him without my having to spell it out.

  ‘There won’t be all that much left. But I thought I might stroll into Harborne when your lot have finished with me. Window-shop. And there’s a concert at the Music Centre tonight. Tony’s got me a free ticket. Not the MSO. A modern-music ensemble. They couldn’t sell many tickets, so they’re papering the house with comps.’

  ‘Comps?’

  ‘Complimentary tickets.’

  ‘Anything I know?’

  ‘Never heard of any of it myself. But I know a couple of the players …’ And Stobbard was carving. After last night I thought he would expect me to be there, and to go round to the Artistes’ Room afterwards. I’d just have time to wash my hair and change into something attractive.

  ‘Er?’

  Poor Chris. But I wished he wouldn’t make me do it.

  ‘I’ll probably be going out with some of them afterwards – old friends.’ I’d intended to discourage, not snub, but Chris looked hurt.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, probably sounding quite horribly bracing. ‘There’s work to be done.’

  He smiled wanly. ‘Of course. And I see the sun’s trying to come out.’

  The sun was shining by the end of the afternoon. There was just time to slip into Harborne. I would celebrate my return to the world with a new suit even the Music Centre clientele wouldn’t sneeze at. In the event, I bought two matching blouses, too, and put the lot on my Barclaycard. I’d have a huge bill next month, but sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When it came to it, I didn’t want to go to the concert, new suit or no. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I certainly didn’t want to be on my own. I was afraid of what my head would find to fill the silence. I sat on my bed, my hair still wet from the shower, hugging my old teddy bear for comfort. Tony would be with the MSO wherever they were, and he hadn’t George’s gift for making phone calls when I needed them. Tomorrow he’d have to talk to Chris. But surely he’d be in the clear. He had to be.

  In the end, I knew I had to go. It was fine enough to walk down to the bus stop, and, in the absence of Tina, that ought to have been a pleasure in itself. But I saw shapes in the shadows. I hadn’t wanted to contradict Chris when he said I didn’t need a minder, but I had a nasty fear, at a level I didn’t care to explore, that he might have been premature.

  I was early. I had a drink, and ordered another for the interval, in case there was a rush for the bar. But when I reached the auditorium I knew there wouldn’t be.

  My lovely new clothes were all wrong. This was not the sort of music yuppies would go for. It was Serious and Modern and attracted students who looked like latter-day hippies. There was a proliferation of corduroy among the older element, and a tendency among the women to aggressively flat shoes and overlong skirts. You’d have thought them more at home at Dartington. In my Marella suit, a rich petunia pink, I stuck out like a sore thumb. Apart, that is, from a group in the centre block of the most expensive seats. From their general gloss and excess of teeth, I deduced – correctly, as it transpired – that they were American. The music was – but I don’t want to prove that I am as much a philistine as people who denigrated Beethoven as a tuneless impostor. No, there was no obvious melody, but I wasn’t so naive as to expect that. But I couldn’t detect rhythm or form either. George had no time for music you couldn’t sing in the bath. He wouldn’t have enjoyed this. We’d started with a minute’s silence for Jools. Then they played the Barber Adagio for Strings in memory of her. I pretended it was for George.

  I’m not sure how seriously Stobbard took the rest of the concert. I wondered if there was something exaggerated about his beat, something rather studied in the way he brought in players.
I was too far back to be sure, but I thought he ghosted a smile at me. Maybe he even winked after a piece which we were assured by the programme note sounded exactly the same backwards as forwards. The noise levels were phenomenal. All in all it was a pretty taxing evening, and I wished I’d been to an honest pop concert, or at home with my radio and my teddy bear. But then, of course, I wouldn’t have been able to spend any time with Stobbard. My interval wine – I knew better than to bother him before the end of the concert – made me feel sick. And the tam-tam chorus of the last piece – so loud it made my breastbone resonate – brought on the sort of headache you get when you’ve marked all your end-of-year exams.

  Or watched them take what was left of a friend to the morgue. On impulse I found a phone. Dean: how was he? The hospital was reticent: ‘critical but stable’. I tried Ian Dale. He was more detailed – Dean was on a life-support system, he said, in intensive care. But the brain scan had been what they called encouraging. And, he said, a big healthy lad like Dean would surely have more of a fighting chance than most. It was the ‘surely’ that worried me.

  If I’d had any sense, I’d have crawled off home there and then. As it was, I pushed my way through the earnest young men telling an exhausted-looking bunch of musicians how meaningful the evening had been, and headed for the Artistes’ Room. Since it wasn’t a Midshires Symphony Orchestra gig there was no Tony to admit me when I knocked. In fact, the raised voices inside might well have meant no one heard anyway. For a moment, I felt so dismal I wanted merely to turn tail and escape. But then I thought of Stobbard and, deciding that a good bonk was as good a way as any of pushing my misery to the back of my mind, edged my way in.

  He was hugging and kissing his way round the sleek group I’d noticed in the auditorium. I thought he hesitated marginally when he saw me – perhaps he was so knackered by the day’s work (don’t forget he’d spent the afternoon rehearsing the ensemble) that he could scarcely place me, particularly as I was nearly as well-dressed as the other women. But he broke away and thrust his way to me, scooping me into his arms and kissing me, rather hard, on the mouth.