Dying on Principle Page 22

  Pilot attempted a snarl.

  ‘Stay!’ I snapped, and was too anxious about Fairfax to look back.

  I stood in the luxurious loo, holding the packet of tablets. They were horribly familiar; the medics had put Mum on them about two months before she succumbed to her cancer. She had fought and fought, but her constant message had been the opposite of Fairfax’s. I shook myself. This was no time to think about philosophies. When my mother had demanded her tablets it meant she was in unbearable pain, and every second I dawdled meant more pain for Fairfax.

  The relief was almost immediate, it seemed, but he sat with his eyes shut, fondling the dog’s ears, for ten minutes.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have some food?’ I asked gently at last.

  ‘There are times,’ he said without opening his eyes, ‘when I want a rice pudding.’

  ‘Rice pudding?’

  ‘A very comforting food. Not the bland and watery variety. Thick and creamy and cooked for hours alongside the Sunday roast. My mother-in-law was a Tartar, but her rice puddings – indeed, her sago puddings – were heavenly. My wife tried to make them, but never managed it. It was a matter of honour for her not to ask her mother, and I truly believe the old bat would have died sooner than tell her. In the meantime, you’ll find some water biscuits and cheese on the kitchen table. You might care to feed Pilot. Insist that he sits before you open the tin, and be prepared to hit him if he tries to eat before his bowl is on the floor.’

  I stood, and clicked my fingers to the dog. ‘Food?’

  He got up, stretched briskly and followed me. He did sit when told, but inched closer in a rather endearing bottom shuffle. But he flinched when I caught his eye, and waited, head down, till I’d scraped the last of the meat into a red plastic bowl and put it gingerly in front of him. ‘OK, get on with it.’

  I picked up the tray already set with cheese and biscuits and two plates, and left the dog to it.

  Alan, the chauffeur, appeared as soon as Fairfax opened the front door, and ushered me as before into the back. Had Fairfax not sagged so visibly as soon as he thought I was no longer watching him, I would have laughed all the way home at the ridiculous spectacle of me being whisked home in such state. This time we did take the suburban route, past the Botanical Gardens and then along Augustus Road. At this point I realised what I might have realised before, had the wine been less strong; another car, a Cavalier, was uncomfortably close to our tail. Some boy racer out to out-drag a flash car; no doubt Alan could shake him off if he wanted to. However, apart from increasingly irritated checks in his mirrors, he did nothing. Perhaps he was relying on the sheer power of the car to shake off the pursuer if he became too impertinent. At last he shot across the lights with some determination.

  ‘We’re being followed, aren’t we?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone playing silly beggars,’ he said repressively.

  ‘Could we go straight to the police station then? I don’t – Christ!’

  Just before our left turn into Gillhurst Road, the tail pulled out alongside us. Simultaneously, a van shot out and pulled up nose to nose with us. Why the hell didn’t Alan use his superior weight to shunt his way out? Why didn’t he use the central locking to protect us?

  The two drivers were out of their vehicles, one on either side of the car. The rear doors, or course. Simultaneously, they started to open them. I grabbed Alan’s headrest and rolled up and over the front seats. I didn’t have time to turn round to open the passenger door – I dived across his lap, ending up on my forearms on the tarmac. If I hurt him as I kicked free, I didn’t care overmuch. The attackers must have taken a moment to register what I was up to; in any case, the door itself held up the man on the driver’s side. I had a second – no more – to think. The Walkway!

  I slid between the van and the Cavalier, and darted across the road. Just off a narrow gulley lay an access point to a disused railway, now set aside for walkers. I slithered down the cindered path, slaloming round barriers designed to stop anyone doing just that. Right, through the tunnel under the road. It’s always damp under there, and I dared not lose my shoes – silly lightweight flatties. Up to my right, I could hear cursing and crashing. Perhaps they were trying to save time by forcing a way where there wasn’t one. Encouraged, I slowed enough to sling my bag across my chest, and then picked up speed. If I encountered a walker, I’d ask for help. Otherwise I’d run to the end – only a mile – and pray I had enough wind to take me straight up Rose Road and the sanctuary of the police station.

  Not a walker, not a cyclist in sight. I kept on, trying despite the deepening gloom to watch where my feet should go, desperate not to twist that knee again. Branches had been allowed to droop and a hawthorn slashed at my face, but I couldn’t tell whether the wetness was blood or sweat. I was tempted briefly by the track through the bird sanctuary – there might still be someone in the allotments at the far end to unlock the gate. But there might not, and I’d have to battle up a steep slope through unforgiving undergrowth to get back to the main path.

  Now I could see the end of the walkway, with the shallow steps back to suburban normality. Yes. But a whim drove me another twenty yards, on to the newly repaired bridge. Which way?

  Dropping to my knees, I raised my head just enough to peer over the bridge’s parapet. One decision made for me. No wonder I hadn’t been bothered by my pursuers – a reception committee of a van and a Cavalier was waiting on the road below. I’d have to double back somehow. A vicious throb from my knee as I dropped back told me I couldn’t go far, not in near darkness. The committee wouldn’t wait all that long and any second the others would catch up. I’d have to risk a scramble. And then I realised the rubble on the bridge stretched on, and I could pick out fence posts. They’d extended the path into the pretty new development of tiny houses at the bottom of Park Hill Road.

  It was only a matter of yards up that hill to safety. There was a gulley they might not know about, one which cut through to Rose Road. It would be amusing to lead any pursuers straight into the arms of the police. If my knee would manage. Up that hill. Then my lungs gave out. Bloody asthma!

  By the Fire Station. Strong people there. Uniforms.

  No! I’d make it to the police station.

  And at last I pushed open the blessed front door, only to collapse in an asthmatic heap on the reception counter. I didn’t even have enough breath to dig my Ventolin spray out of my bag; all I could do was gesture feebly. The woman on duty must have called for help – there’d be people trained in first aid in a police station, after all – and I suddenly heard words like ‘ambulance’ and ‘hospital’. I managed to drag in enough oxygen to let me tip up the bag and scrabble.

  There! Two miraculous drags and I was alive again.

  I agreed with someone’s suggestion that I could use a cup of coffee, and then put my brain back into gear.

  ‘I suppose it’s not possible to contact DCI Groom, is it?’ I asked. For in the heap of detritus I’d shaken from my bag lay something that suddenly seemed very important.

  26

  ‘DCI Groom’s not on duty,’ said the receptionist, in a voice that said I had a cheek to ask.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He was out at a head-wetting, wasn’t he, and probably Ian with him. ‘Is there anyone on the team dealing with the George Muntz business I could talk to?’

  There was a muttered colloquy.

  ‘Because,’ I pursued, ‘I didn’t get this way having a quiet evening jog.’ I spread my hands, sticky with gravel rash I’d only just noticed. ‘I need to report an attempted attack, and I think I’d like some protection.’ I tried not to look over my shoulder as the door whooshed open. Reason told me that no one would try to pick me off under the very eyes of the police, but I found that although my mouth was making reasonable, indeed responsible, noises, the rest of me was shaking in a huge, silent scream.

  One of the WPCs muttered urgently: ‘She’s the gaffer’s woman. Better get Tom to sort her out.’

&
nbsp; Wrong. I wasn’t anyone’s woman, and I didn’t need sorting out. But I would be glad to get out of the reception area, where the latest whoosh of the door had admitted a stinking wino whose lice I could see from here.

  I followed the WPC through the airlock to an interview room. Tom proved to be a man in his thirties with pale orange hair, a retroussé nose and white eyelashes. He had one of the thickest Geordie accents I’d come across outside the northeast, and was drinking tea from a Newcastle United mug. At first his expression was one of ineffable cynicism, but as my story unfolded he grew more alert.

  When I paused at the point where I had dived out of the car, he raised his pencil. ‘I want the gaffer in on this,’ he said.

  ‘He’s on the booze tonight,’ I said lightly.

  ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you, man,’ he asked, ‘that we’re trained to hold our beer? And knowing Chris, I’ll bet he’s on nothing stronger than slim-line tonic. He only left here half an hour ago, mind. Believes in his work, does Chris. Specially if it’s murder. Tell you what, d’you want to get those hands seen to while I raise him? I’ll get one of the lasses to sort you out, pet. And we can always start on a statement and get you looking at some faces while the memory’s still warm.’

  I was in their incident room scrutinising photographs when Ian surged in.

  ‘Sophie! What the hell are you doing? They said there’d been a development, but they never said it was you who was involved. Silly buggers! The gaffer’ll have your sodding hide for this, Tom.’

  Orange Hair looked as serious as it’s possible to look when all your features turn naturally upwards.

  ‘Always give the full story, lad, remember that. Part of your story should have included the name Sophie.’

  The men grinned, enjoying, no doubt, the thought of their serious boss soft in the head with love. I smiled gently, because my face needed some expression, but inwardly I was resolving to tell no one except Chris about the magnetron in my bag.

  ‘I don’t recognise anyone in here,’ I said, patting the photos. ‘And I’d say that neither of tonight’s attackers was the man that drove at me on the High Street. Which reminds me, your canteen couldn’t run to a tea towel and some ice, could it?’ I could feel the heat from my knee. I’d stripped off my ruined tights when a WPC had dressed my hands, and could simply bundle ice cubes into the towel and swathe it round my leg. Not elegant but effective.

  Tom padded off; Ian stared at me. ‘What I can’t work out, Sophie, is why you ran all the way up here and made yourself bad. Gave them quite a scare with your asthma. Why didn’t you knock at someone’s door and raise merry hell? Much more sensible.’

  ‘I know that now. I wasn’t expecting the asthma – must have picked up some pollen to set it off. But how d’you select a household to disturb? Be tough if you chose one where they were deaf or something. Chummie getting closer all the time and you trying to yell through the letter box!’

  Ian laughed but without amusement. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  ‘Lots of things. The first is that I’m bloody scared. Someone else’s car – and I wasn’t safe in that. And their nerve – a couple of hundred yards from here, and police cars constantly turning up the hill! Ian, I can’t get it out of my head that the chauffeur may have been involved. Surely he could have put up more fight?’

  ‘And if he was involved, would that mean your gentleman friend was involved?’

  ‘Surely he’s too ill?’

  Before Ian could answer – and goodness knows what sensible observation he could have made – the first WPC returned, and made a point of drawing him to one side before whispering to him. They both looked at me.

  ‘Back in five minues, Sophie – OK?’

  It had to be, didn’t it? I shifted my knee and thought patient thoughts.

  After rather more than five minutes, Ian returned. He sat down heavily, as if trying to balance his thoughts.

  ‘I reckon your chauffeur may be in the clear. He was out front shitting bricks – sorry, Sophie – saying his passenger had gone missing. Quite upset, he was. Seems he drove round looking for you. I almost had him in tears when I said I’d have to talk to Fairfax too.’

  ‘Good. I’d like him to fry a bit. What about Fairfax?’

  ‘We shall have a conversation tomorrow, don’t you worry. But this chauffeur character reckons the old guy’s as sick as you think he is. He begged me not to disturb him. Quite convincing. What do you think?’

  Ian had so rarely asked my opinion that I was silenced. At last I managed a weak shrug of acquiescence. ‘I’m in your hands. You’re a pretty good judge of character.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘What would Chris do?’ And suddenly I found myself yawning till the tears came. ‘I think he’d say leave it.’

  Ian nodded. ‘I’ve phoned Val and she’s airing the spare bed. I know you don’t like her cooking, Sophie, and I dare say she wouldn’t like yours, but it’s a safe haven. Chris’ll no doubt want to work out something more permanent tomorrow.’ He looked at me meaningfully.

  I chose to ignore his insinuation. ‘Tina as minder?’

  ‘Tina’s too grand for that now she’s a DS. Not that we couldn’t ask, of course. Owes me the odd favour. But I’ll warn you, she’s still into chicken and chips – and reggae.’

  Tina had moved in to guard me some fifteen months earlier when someone had designs on my life; I don’t know which of us had irritated the other more. She had since fallen in love with a friend of mine, which was a bit of a problem because he was gay.

  ‘Has she got over Courtney?’ I asked, smiling my thanks to Tom, who’d returned with a red plastic bucket full of ice, apparently from the inside of a freezer, and a striped tea towel.

  ‘Still hoping, still visiting him in Durham nick when she gets free time. And busy decorating a flat for him for when he comes out in June. I don’t know, Sophie, these kids. Mind you, you didn’t set her a good example – which you should have done, being a teacher.’

  ‘I told her he was gay. What else could I do? She’s in for a lot of heartache if she doesn’t accept that.’

  We nodded solemnly; and I realised I didn’t like Ian’s assumption that I at least was old enough to know better.

  For form’s sake, and to divert the conversation, I flicked through the photos again. Where on earth was Chris?

  ‘Come on, love, you look as if you’ve done enough for one day,’ Ian said at last, taking the file from me. ‘We’ll stop off at your place and get your things, and then I’m taking you home.’

  I was forced into it: ‘What about Chris?’

  Ian laughed. ‘You won’t want to see him. I’ve never seen a man get pissed as quickly as he did tonight.’

  Val, Ian’s wife, pressed another Weetabix on me, but I was firm: I had to get back home, if that was where Chris had said he’d meet me. I also wanted to be there before him, so that I could get into some clean clothes. Washing my hair and showering were on the agenda too, provided I could fit rubber gloves over the bulky dressings on my hands. On further consideration, however, it might be a good idea to soak them off and put on fresh ones, and I was engaged in this when Ian called upstairs to say Chris had arrived. My hair, alas, still hung wet about my ears.

  ‘Give me a couple more minutes! Brew up some coffee while you wait,’ I called over the banister.

  The slam of my front door suggested either that he’d taken umbrage or that he’d sent Ian off. I finished my hair, wincing as I shifted my grip on the brush or dryer, and then slapped on some make-up. I had a feeling I might need a false front as the day progressed.

  At least I looked better than he did – he gave the impression that he’d prefer quieter Alka-Seltzer. I slotted a couple of slices of wholemeal bread into the refurbished toaster and slapped both butter and low-fat spread on to a tray on the table. When he merely looked martyred, I dug out a pot of apricot jam and plonked that down too.

  ‘Sophie—’

 
‘I’ll talk when you’ve eaten,’ I said. And, since the toast smelled good, popped in another couple of rounds for myself. ‘I think we’ll eat on the patio.’

  He took the tray while I unlocked. It was cool, but looked as if it might warm up later.

  ‘About last night,’ he began.

  ‘Titus Andronicus, were you? Never mind, this coffee’ll sort you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have—’

  I didn’t want apologies. I fetched my handbag and, dropping it on the table, ferreted inside.

  ‘There!’

  ‘What the hell?’ He looked at the object more closely, but glanced up at me before touching it.

  I shook my head. ‘I wouldn’t. It might be perfectly innocent, of course, in which case it’ll be covered in prints, but let’s not risk it. Be more interesting, I suppose, if it’s been wiped clean.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  ‘The business part of a microwave – at least I think so. I found it in a skip at work. I rescued it to see if it would help Simon – you can see what a good job he did with my toaster. But …’

  ‘Come on, spit it out!’

  ‘Do you remember,’ I said slowly, ‘that old story about a woman shoving her poodle into a microwave to dry its darling fur – and cooking it? We have this guy whose brain ends up more like an omelette than a blancmange. There couldn’t possibly be a connection, could there?’

  ‘Jesus! How revolting!’

  ‘Is there someone in the forensic-science lab who wouldn’t laugh at the idea? Because I’d like to ask Simon if it’s possible. I wanted to last night, but I thought I’d better get your permission.’

  ‘You are taking this seriously!’

  ‘I am.’

  He pushed away his coffee, rubbing his hands over his face. ‘How good’s this chap?’

  ‘He’ll fix anything electrical. He fixed my radio. And the toaster. He’d be discreet, too. He’d tell us if the theory’s viable. Better than making laughing stocks of ourselves?’

  ‘Phone him and tell him we’re on our way. Bloody bugs!’