Dying Fall Read online

  ‘Now, folks, this is the young lady I’ve been telling you all about: she’s the one who’s made life bearable in this goddamned hole.’ Stobbard kept his arm possessively around my shoulder. He nuzzled my hair. I was glad it was clean and smelt nice. He didn’t, to be honest. He was wet with sweat, and smelt as if he’d run a marathon.

  As if he could read my mind, he pushed me away from him, towards his friends. ‘God, I shouldn’t be anywhere near you civilised people. Guess I smell like the men’s restroom. Give me just five minutes, will you?’

  He disappeared into the inner room. Suddenly he dodged back out again, and picked up his baton. He disappeared again. Luckily it didn’t fall to me to remark on it. A lovely middle-aged lady, with the scars of a face-lift just visible under her hairline, screamed with laughter. ‘Did you ever see the like? Fancy taking your baton to the goddamn john!’

  ‘Perhaps he’s superstitious about losing it,’ I said mildly. ‘Some conductors are, aren’t they?’

  Someone took up the theme: a Japanese conductor who insisted on having his favourite baton in the room when he meditated, an English oboist rumoured to take his instrument to bed with him (in its case, of course), a pianist who carted his own Bechstein around the world with him. We were quite old friends by the time we had worked out all the variations. The face-lift lady was delighted he’d met with a nice English girl: she wanted to hear all about my connection with music, the orchestra, the choir, my work. She introduced some of the entourage, and I found myself apologising to a man of about my own age, with a fine-boned, intelligent face, for not understanding the evening’s fare.

  ‘I’m not a musician, you see,’ I said, expecting him to play – oh, a melancholy profile like that ought to play the viola. But when I looked at the fingers of his left hand, the nails were long, and there were none of the blackened grooves in the tips you expect on a string player.

  ‘Oh, me neither. No, I just came over to see Stob with this bunch of alumni. We’ve been friends ever since our freshman year.’

  ‘So what –’ I groped for the term –‘did you major in?’

  ‘Math.’

  That didn’t surprise me. Our university orchestra had been packed out with medics and mathematicians: the latter reckoned they had an affinity with music stretching back to the Greeks. ‘Stob was always top of our group,’ the young man continued. ‘And it seemed to come so easy, too. His music. His drama. He played Hamlet, you know. Had all the girls weeping over him. Before Mel Gibson’s time, that’d be! Stob – he’s one of those disgusting people,’ he said laughing, ‘who are good at everything they touch.’

  ‘Renaissance man,’ I agreed, my head pounding so hard I was afraid someone would notice.

  ‘Right! He can fix anything the experts can’t touch. The electronics on my car, my hi-fi: anything like that. Always asks, when he comes to visit with me, ‘Anything to repair, Lew?’ That’s Stob for you.’

  ‘So what do you do?’ I asked, at last remembering party etiquette.

  ‘Bit of this, bit of that.’ He laughed again. ‘I like to be on the move. Upwards, preferably!’

  ‘He’s so modest,’ said Face-lift.

  I looked as alert as I could: any moment now I’d literally have to hold my eyes open.

  ‘He’s just become the youngest president they’ve ever had at –’

  ‘Now, Mrs Mayou –’

  She was his mother!

  ‘You all right, honey?’ She was peering at me anxiously.

  ‘Bit of a headache,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘You English folk and your understatement. Migraine?’

  I nodded; wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Stobbard must run you home, sweetheart.’

  ‘No. No, please. I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil the party. Please. Just explain. And tell him I’m sorry.’

  She put her hands lightly on my arms. ‘Sure. And I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other real soon. Fancy Stobbard finding a real little English rose. Don’t worry, Sophie: I’ll send him your love. Hey! Sophie! Did anyone ever tell you you look just like –? Lew, who’s she like?’

  But the door slipped shut behind me, and I was able to ignore her.

  One of the Centre’s security staff called me a cab, and let me sit down at his desk till it arrived. He was a sufferer, he said, and his wife and daughter. He’d tried everything the doctor could throw at him and acupuncture and homoeopathy and damned if he wasn’t going to try a faith healer he’d heard of. He’d let me know if it worked. Nice man. Took my arm to help me through the door. Wouldn’t take the fiver I tried to push at him. Told the driver I was a friend of the Chief Inspector. Perhaps he wasn’t a security guard.

  It wasn’t a bad migraine. Not the sort that lays you out for days. In any case, unlike my fellow sufferer, I did have some very effective tablets, and I could still see enough, when I got home, to tear a couple out of their foil jackets and drop them in a tumbler of water. I overfilled it: drops spattered out on the working surface. I ought to mop up. But I left them. All I could manage now was to crawl up to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I didn’t feel too bad in the morning. I’d already showered and was thinking about breakfast when the phone rang. It was Sean, the head of English, to ask me if I’d mind taking an extra class in the afternoon. Shahida: it looked as if she might lose her baby. But she’d cared enough about her class to ring him from hospital. Crying for her wouldn’t do any good. Taking her class and sparing her worry might.

  I picked up my phone pad to write down the details. The top sheet was green. I had to press quite hard to get the biro to work. I tore it off, and went into the kitchen. I put the paper on the working surface while I filled the kettle. It was green. It should have been the last vermilion one.

  It didn’t make sense.

  I made a mug of weak tea, and thought about toast. Next to the bread bin, on the working surface, were little specks of powder. They seemed terribly familiar.

  Migraine often leaves you fuzzy, but not usually mad. How could I see grains of powder on someone else’s table? I wished the migraine would come back. I didn’t want to think what I was afraid I would have to think.

  I reached for the telephone. Tina had sufficient common sense to talk me out of my panic. Her answering machine told me she would phone back. Chris: I’d really wanted to speak to him, so God knows why I hadn’t tried him first. He was with the Chief Constable, said a bored voice; I could leave a message. I did. Ian. He’d do at a pinch. His wife said he was on the way to the dentist’s. He’d broken his dentures. By the time I’d made all those phone calls, I was too late to go by bus.

  It would have to be my bike. I quite enjoyed it, actually, bowling along past all those stationary cars. The sun was shining, birds were announcing it was spring: all I had to fear was death. I tried to persuade myself that I would be safe as long as I was in class; at least I could ask Winston to make sure he kept out anyone likely to harm me. When I mentioned the name, he shrugged, but he thought he dimly recognised the face in the photograph I showed him. He taped it to the porters’ desk, so that the people replacing him would know.

  ‘Won’t you be here all day then?’

  ‘Nope: only the early shift. I’ll be out in this sun. Going for a jog.’

  Out of courtesy and a desire to catch my breath, I popped in to see Richard and apologise for missing all of yesterday. He waved the coffee percolator at me, produced those wonderful biscuits and thanked me for agreeing to take Shahida’s class. His daughter had been through this often enough: how many times had I seen him grey and sweating, wondering if this time she’d be all right?

  ‘They say it’s nature’s way,’ he said. ‘But nature can be so bloody cruel.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re sure you’re OK?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been through quite a bit yourself.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Mea
nwhile,’ he said, as if sensing that I couldn’t handle it if he were kind, ‘have you seen Brenda’s new eyes? You know she was going to have contact lenses? She’s only been and bought bright turquoise. Quite arresting they look, in an Afro-Caribbean face! Another biscuit?’

  If I’d protected myself as much as I reasonably could, why did I then expose myself and a number of other people to a quite crazy risk?

  Before lunch, I had some free time. We’re supposed to spend it in college doing something useful. Counselling, attending meetings, answering the phone: that sort of useful. One or two people try to do their marking, but with the staff room always full of people and three phones constantly ringing, this takes powers of concentration I can only envy, like those of people who can do crosswords on commuter trains. I sat staring at a pile of marking. Then I moved it. I found a blank sheet of paper – no mean feat since our budget had run out six weeks ago and the stock cupboard was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s. A red biro that still worked. And I started work on a set of structured notes that I’d have awarded an A. Problem. Motive. Evidence. Some of the sections were probably incomplete. But my jottings pointed inescapably to the fact that when Jools had died, justice had not been done. Not completely, though I did rather think that at least Wajid had been avenged. It would be easier to do nothing for a bit. Chris would phone as soon as he got a chance. Or Tina. Or Ian Dale. I could have tried Seb, I suppose, or even just walked down to Ladywood nick and asked for the duty inspector. I embarked on a long, elaborate doodle. The biro expired.

  On impulse, I phoned the Accident Hospital again. Without comment they put me through to Intensive Care. I found my self gabbling that it was my fault he’d been killed.

  ‘Your fault it may be,’ said a cool voice rather like Philomena’s, ‘but he’s not dead yet. His condition is stabilising satisfactorily.’

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘I’m not a doctor.’ Then her voice softened. ‘But I’ve seen worse cases than this survive and return to a normal life.’

  When the phone rang on my desk there was no reason for me to jump as if I’d been kicked. Nor for my hand and voice to be shaking when I answered it.

  It was Winston, from the security desk. One of the security guards had intercepted some visitors for me. Did I want to see them?

  I said cautiously that it rather depended who they were.

  Aftab and his parents, came the reply.

  There was only a classroom to put them in, of course, and if they wanted tea I’d have to wash some cups. But I was intrigued. Our students’ parents tended to regard their offspring as independent, so they didn’t come into contact with us all that often. And why me? I wasn’t Aftab’s tutor or anything.

  I was scarcely reassured by the solemn expressions on their faces. But they smiled when I did, and sat down, looking at Aftab to explain.

  ‘It’s about my cousin, miss. Iqbal.’

  I nodded.

  ‘The police have picked him up. Drugs, miss: he was handling drugs.’

  His father cleared his throat and spoke. ‘He has been a very wicked man. He has corrupted our young not only with drugs but with filthy films.’

  ‘Porno videos, miss,’ said Aftab. ‘Really bad. And I wanted you to know that was why I went to Bradford.’

  ‘Bradford?’

  ‘Because he said if I didn’t make myself scarce he’d tell my parents about Manjit.’

  ‘You and Manjit?’

  He reddened, then flashed a quick smile at his parents. In a moment we were all smiling.

  ‘I told them myself, miss. And about Manjit’s brother. Making her – oh, miss, making her –’

  ‘I did not want my son to love a Sikh girl,’ said Mr Hussain. ‘But it seems to me enough wrong has been done. My family – my nephew a purveyor of filth, another nephew killed.’

  ‘We still don’t know why he was killed,’ I said.

  He smiled grimly. ‘Young men who keep good company and behave themselves don’t get murdered. Not very often.’

  His wife said something. He nodded to her, and turned back to me. ‘Young Manjit has left home. Aftab tells me her brother has been lewd, and Manjit has been trying to protect her purity.’

  I nodded. ‘It seems that way to me. She must have had a very good reason to leave home. Manjit was always a good student. She wouldn’t risk damaging her education if she didn’t have to.’

  ‘Miss Rivers, my son says he loves Manjit, and he says she loves him. He says you can get a message to her. I want you to tell her that if she and my son … You understand, I don’t want this. But I am a fair man.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ I said. ‘And I think a kind one.’

  He was nearly in tears. His wife was, openly, and she touched her son’s hand.

  ‘Dad says if we still love each other when we’re eighteen he’ll let us marry,’ said Aftab.

  ‘If she takes our faith. If she embraces Islam,’ Mr Hussain added.

  ‘I’ll pass the message on,’ I said. ‘Gladly.’

  The phone on my desk rang again a few minutes later. Not for me, this time. For Jim Ryan, lecturer in Business Studies. He’d got the job, the voice said. I’d been so preoccupied recently I didn’t even know he was job-hunting. This offer came hard on the heels of his gaining his PhD, so I rather assumed he’d be off to some university or other. But he’d escaped from education altogether. He’d just got a job with a bookmaker. We were to go to a pub to celebrate: yes, me too, since everyone assumed I was safe. We cut through the housing estate opposite the college and headed for Broad Street. Jim rather fancied the Glassworks, right down by Gas Street Basin, but a couple of people vetoed that – they had classes to teach in half an hour. My first afternoon class had been cancelled because the students were all on work experience – though not, presumably, at ICB. I could settle down with a pleasant half-pint. Yet I chose mineral water. If I was going to do what I thought I was going to do, I’d need the clearest of heads. But I might not do it. Finding the payphone next to the loo seemed an omen. I dialled and was put through. Yes, he’d be delighted to meet me. This afternoon? But he had a rehearsal at two-thirty.

  ‘Just ten minutes,’ I urged. ‘Please, Stobbard.’

  ‘Guess you want to see me real bad?’

  Why had I never noticed how complacent his voice could sound?

  ‘Yes. We – I’d like to talk.’

  ‘I’d like to do something more than talk, honey. Maybe we can fix it then.’ Stob’ll fix anything. Stob and his drama – had all the girls weeping over him.

  We agreed to meet at the back of the Music Centre, and I put the phone down. This time I wasn’t surprised I was shaking. I refused to allow myself to vomit. I needed all the strength I’d got for what I had to do.

  I was only twenty yards from the Mondiale when I realised how stupid it would be to encounter him there, although there were plenty of people around. Men, mostly, the double-breasted suit variety. Some conference, no doubt: they all sported little labels and carried blue and silver Mondiale folders. One bloated-looking man let his slip. Sophie, ever the Girl Guide, to the rescue! Although he was positively effusive with his thanks, I didn’t listen. I was concerned with something more interesting. I knew it would be there. I’d known it would be there ever since my evening with Stobbard. A little zigzag mark on each photocopied page.

  I don’t remember crossing the road. I must have done. I was lurking as close as I could to the walls of the office blocks and shops. When I tried a more confident stride I suddenly had an absurd vision of myself as a diminutive John Wayne. Laughing helped. I stopped by another phone and left a precise and urgent message for Chris. He’d be furious if he didn’t get it, I said. ‘I don’t care whether he’s with the Home Secretary,’ I insisted. ‘Tell him. Now.’

  Past Maples and Lee Longlands: they’d lost a good customer when Jools died. From the window of Lee Longlands a particularly appealing teddy bear beamed at me. I might just need you, I said. I hoped it
was under my breath. Soon I would cross the road and take the steps down to the half finished piazza that lay between the canal and the Music Centre. It was already paved in attractive patterns of blue and red brick, and at this side there were futuristic but surprisingly comfortable benches. The far side was cordoned off, with a mass of scaffolding still scaling the rear section of the Music Centre. Since George’s death they’d looped barbed wire round the high wire fence. There were also gates, but though I could see the padlock and chain which normally secured them, they were propped open to allow a dumper truck to chug in and out. I had to face him as he approached. If I didn’t I’d risk a quick squeeze on the throat and a slide into the oily polluted waters of the cut. He’d tried often enough before to get rid of me. I was now convinced the would-be Harborne rapist was him. It was all too neat to be anyone else. The Datsun, the stage make-up, maybe – thanks, Richard – maybe even tinted contact lenses: and of course he never once spoke. And there had been no reports of remotely similar attacks on other people. If only I’d thought to ask Chris to check the time of his flight to Munich. Then there was the letter bomb. If Jools had delivered it, then I’m sure it was Stobbard who’d fixed it. OK, I exaggerate. That wasn’t an attempt on my life. Just my hands and face. But what about Jools’s last mission? Quite a powerful explosion, that. The ballet. Or, more particularly, his hotel afterwards. I suppose it would be difficult to get an erection if you were planning to push your partner off your balcony. Or, of course, if you’re snorting coke so hard you have chronic rhinitis. That was something I had to ask him about. The car chase: no, I really couldn’t have identified the driver. Maybe under hypnosis. The burglary. The mark on any photocopying done on the Mondiale’s machine. The attack on Dean.

  I’d stationed myself not in the bright sun, but in shadow. I was shivering already. I’d still got a few minutes to wait. And then I saw him walking towards me. The sun glossed features I could have loved dearly. My eyes travelled down – I wanted one last look at the broad shoulders, the hips made neater still by the cut of his trousers. But he’d pulled his jacket well down. I noticed a bulge. Somehow I did not think it was because he was pleased to see me.