by Roy Lewis
‘Well, well, lad, tha’s done well enough, hey? Nice little room, nice little secretary, the quiet easy life, is that it?’ He moved forward, light on his feet for such a big man and settled himself in a chair facing Ward. ‘Any chance of a coffee, then?’
‘This a social call?’ Ward picked up the phone and dialled reception. ‘Er . . . can you send up two coffees as soon as possible?’ He replaced the phone and looked at Arkwright. ‘Or is it in the way of business?’
Arkwright smiled benignly and pulled at his ear. ‘Bit of both, really. Thought it’d be nice to see how you’re getting on, now you’ve crossed to t’other side.’
‘Not exactly the other side, surely.’
‘Well, you know how I mean.’ Arkwright grinned.
‘How’s your eyes, anyway?’
‘I’m well enough.’
‘Loss to the Force, Eric, loss to the Force.’
Ward made no reply; Arkwright had been conspicuous in expressing no sympathy at the time of Ward’s departure. He listened as Arkwright wandered on, talking about some of his ex-colleagues, bringing him up to date on movements. They had been surprisingly numerous, even though Ward had been away for only eighteen months. The secretary came in with the coffees and Arkwright thanked her graciously. When she’d gone he picked up his cup and quite deliberately sipped it with noisy gusto. ‘No, you seem to have settled in nicely enough, Eric, you have that.’
‘I don’t think you’ve really called to comment upon the degree of comfort I enjoy.’
‘No need to get acid, Eric.’ Arkwright’s words were placatory but there was an edge of steel in his voice. ‘If you must know, I just called to discuss with you how you seemed to be doing some funny things, beyond the call of a solicitor’s duty, like.’
‘Yes?’ Ward said unhelpfully.
‘Yes. Like breaking and entering, for instance,’ Arkwright said affably. ‘Not usually in a solicitor’s line of work.’
Ward recalled Joseph Francis’s words and his mouth was tight. ‘I realized something was wrong in Sarah Boden’s house. When I broke in, I discovered she was dead. My being a solicitor had nothing to do with it.’
‘Mmm. No, suppose not. You — er — you stayed over in Warkworth evening before, didn’t you?’ Arkwright’s eyes fixed on him over the rim of the coffee cup. ‘Did you go up to see her then?’
Ward shook his head. ‘I intended to. I — I didn’t feel well enough, so I booked a room in the hotel and ate there, rested, went to see her next morning.’
‘What did you want to see her about, then?’ The tone was still casual, but Ward was gaining the impression that there was something more important behind this visit than he realized.
‘I’m dealing with an administration matter. I thought she might be able to give me some information — local gossip if you like, that she might have picked up twenty years ago -’
‘Twenty years?’
‘—when she was working at a house in Northumberland which has since burned down. It was a slim chance and now it’s too late anyway . . . Just what is this all about, Arkwright?’
The big man shook his head slowly. ‘Come to that in a moment. First of all, I know you gave a statement, but like to tell me about it again? You know the form — in case you . . . er . . . missed anything at the time.’
Ward suppressed an angry reply and patiently went over what he had already said to the police at Morpeth. Arkwright asked him a few questions about the position of the body, and the state of the kitchen when he entered it, then asked him if he had entered any other part of the house. When he denied doing so, Arkwright frowned. ‘Mmmm. And you didn’t move the body?’
‘Couldn’t be sure she was dead. I just left, and called the ambulance and the police.’
‘Mmm. Interesting.’
Ward regarded him stonily for a short while. Then he said, ‘You’d better tell me.’
Arkwright finished his coffee and put the cup down with a clatter. ‘Not a lot to tell you, really. Just questions to ask. In case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘In case the labs at Gosforth come up with the kind of report the liaison officer there tells me they might produce. You see, they’re a bit puzzled, down there in Gosforth.’
‘What about?’
‘The old lady, she goes into the kitchen just when it’s getting dark, to make a cup of tea, maybe, on the gas. Maybe she’s looking for the matches, and she turns, and maybe slips on the lino. She bangs her head — not a bad blow, but she’s eighty, after all, and maybe the sudden shock, the surprise, the fall, it knocks her out for a while. And she lies there while the rain comes down and the kitchen is cold and the window open. Cold night air, thin dress . . . and a weak old lady . . .’ He leaned back in his chair, squinted thoughtfully at Eric Ward. ‘She was dead when you found her?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
‘Touch her?’
‘Just her pulse.’
Arkwright bared his teeth in a grimace. ‘Wonder what made the scratches on her neck, then?’
The room was still for a moment. ‘Scratches?’ Ward repeated stupidly.
‘Scratches,’ Arkwright repeated emphatically. ‘Made before death. No cats in the house. Maybe something under her own nails, but I doubt it. Bit of bruising too, hip, upper arms. All before death, you see, but not long before. And you say you didn’t go around there the night before?’
‘No.’
‘Funny.’ Arkwright stared at him thoughtfully. ‘You see, there’s a woman lives up above this Boden woman who says she saw someone knocking at the door in the rain the previous evening. Then, next morning, she’s going down to do her shopping and there’s a feller standing knocking again — almost collides with him as he stepped back. She thinks it was the same man.’
‘She’s wrong,’ Ward said flatly. ‘I remember colliding with some woman that morning — but I wasn’t there the night before.’
‘No. If you say so.’ Arkwright considered the matter for a few moments. ‘So you wouldn’t have draped a wet raincoat over the banisters of the stairs either, so it made a puddle on the carpet?’
Ward made no reply; he had already stated the truth. ‘You don’t think her death was an accident,’ he said slowly.
‘Oh, I didn’t say that. We’ve got to wait for the lab report from Gosforth. But let’s say my experienced nose detects something malodorous.’ He placed his hands on the arms of his chair, preparatory to rising. ‘All right, that’ll do for now. But you’re sure there’s nothing more, you can tell me?’
Ward shook his head and Arkwright grimaced, then heaved himself to his feet, glanced around him once more to smile an insincerely appreciative smile and turned to leave.
‘There is one thing,’ Ward said as Arkwright was about to open the door.
‘Yeh?’
‘You haven’t asked me for details about why I wanted to see her.’
Arkwright raised his eyebrows mockingly. ‘You told me you were doing something about the administration of an estate. But lawyers are close-mouthed about their clients’ affairs. I didn’t expect you’d answer me if I asked for details.’
‘This client is dead.’
Arkwright considered the matter. ‘There’ll be beneficiaries — don’t you really act for them as well?’
‘I can’t find them. That’s why I was going to question Sarah Boden.’
Arkwright grinned unpleasantly. ‘We all got our problems. You — a dead client, and a dead . . . what would you call her? Witness?’ He shrugged. ‘So tell me your problem.’
‘Not exactly a problem.’
‘So what, then?’
‘The dead client was Arthur Egan.’
If he had expected an immediate reaction, Eric Ward was disappointed. Arkwright stared at him expectantly for a moment as though assuming he had more to say. Then his mouth twisted slightly, as though he was about to make a sneering, dismissive remark to suggest the name meant nothing to him. It was several seconds be
fore Ward saw the slow seeping of memory darken Arkwright’s eyes, and then the big man stood there staring at Ward, but not seeing him, as his memory cells produced facts and faces and names. ‘Arthur Egan,’ he said at last, but with a hint of defensiveness and caution. ‘Can’t say it rings any bells for me, exactly.’
‘Then I’ll ring a couple for you,’ Ward said quietly.
‘Just over twenty years ago he was charged with murder. He copped manslaughter and served seven years.’
‘There’s a few of them about. I don’t—’
‘When he got out he lived quietly in Westerhope, and died recently. But since I started dealing with his estate I’ve been hearing some funny things.’
‘You have, hey?’ Arkwright stood squarely, facing him. ‘And no doubt you’re going to tell me about them.’
‘That’s right. Because I’m beginning to think Egan was railroaded.’
Arkwright had control of his eyes now; he stared without expression at Ward. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’ he asked calmly.
‘Egan may well have been guilty of the crime — the killing of Colonel Denby — but it begins to look to me as though the evidence was planted to make sure a conviction was brought in.’
There was a short silence, as Arkwright continued to stare impassively at Eric Ward. ‘Just why are you telling me all this?’
‘Because the way I hear it, you were responsible for the planting of some of that evidence. Wittingly or unwittingly, you helped put Egan away for seven years!’
A flush now stained Arkwright’s heavy face. He came back two steps towards Ward’s desk, threateningly. ‘You just better watch your mouth, Ward. That kind of talk can get a man into trouble!’
‘Not if he can prove what he says!’ Ward was trembling.
He had no idea now why he was talking this way to Arkwright; perhaps it had been the result of the man’s attitude when he entered the room; perhaps it was merely that Arkwright was the catalyst for all the doubts and pressures that had been stirring in Ward’s mind since he had first become involved with the Egan administration.
Arkwright thrust his head forward. His tone was ugly. ‘Listen to me, friend. It seems to me you’re a bit off track. I don’t know what the hell’s got into you, but this rubbish you’re spouting — hell, you’re talking about a prosecution twenty years old! The man himself is dead! What’s the point of stirring things up now — did he ever do it, when he got out? What makes you the great saviour of reputations? Egan was guilty; he served his time; then he tried to forget about it. You ought to do the same.’
‘And what if he wasn’t guilty?’
The words lay in the air between them like an obscenity. Arkwright was glaring at him, his face purpling, his big hands at his sides, clenched as though he was restraining himself only with the greatest difficulty. At last he said, ‘I’m going to forget this rubbish you’re saying, Ward. Because it would be unproductive to do anything about it. I got a job to do over this Sarah Boden business — and it’s got nothing to do with a twenty year old manslaughter case. Now if you got anything to say to help over the Boden death, all right. If not — keep your mouth shut.’ He turned away, angrily, making for the door again. He opened it, then paused, looked back and said in an even tone, ‘Remember this, too. Push things . . .’ He hesitated, and again Ward got the impression that he was thinking back, combing through his memory for half-forgotten truths. ‘Push things . . . and you might find yourself facing guns big enough to blow you to little pieces!’
He left, and Ward heard him stamping angrily down the stairs. Anger still stirred Eric Ward’s blood and he could hardly think straight as a result. He cursed himself for being so direct with Arkwright: if he had played him more gently he might have discovered more about the Egan case of twenty years ago from the man who had been a constable on the case.
It was only when he had calmed down that he realized Arkwright had not denied that evidence had been planted against Arthur Egan.
* * *
Jackie Parton slipped out of the pub to meet Ward as arranged. Eric Ward had had enough of public houses with their smoke-filled atmospheres; he wanted to talk to Parton but he wanted to walk, too, in the fresh air. He had worked doggedly all afternoon on the Morcomb files again and he was tired, but the Egan case still haunted him — and haunted was the word. He wanted desperately to have done with it suddenly; he had instructions from Joseph Francis to complete the administration, and he wanted Egan off his mind. But it would not be possible while anger stirred in his veins, against Arkwright, against the people behind Arkwright who might have pressurized Tiggy Williams and others to send Egan to prison.
‘This is a pretty sudden assumption you’re making,’ Jackie Parton said carefully, as they walked along the Quayside and under the span of the Tyne Bridge shadowing the dark evening water.
‘That maybe Arthur Egan wasn’t guilty?’ Ward shook his head desperately. ‘I don’t know . . . there’s just something odd about the whole case. Look, Egan was a quiet, reserved person as a lad — isn’t that the picture you’ve got of him? Quiet, and responsible. He goes off to the country when his mother settles into a new marriage — but he still comes back to see his half-brother. And then, suddenly, he takes to burglary, for God’s sake! And more — he clubs down a man and kills him, when threatened with a shotgun! It’s not in character. Not the character of the man I seem to see.’
Parton was silent for a while. Traffic roared over the bridge behind and above them; the dark outline of a naval vessel berthed at the Gateshead side lay solid against the slope of the river banks. ‘All right, you’d better go on, if you go that far.’
‘I don’t know that I can! There are other . . . odd situations, but they don’t seem to make sense, don’t seem to tie in to the burglary at Vixen Hill. To start with, why the hell did Egan go back there, when he had been released from prison? Remorse . . . curiosity? It’s such an odd thing to do. And Fred Bridges — I just don’t believe him when he says he fixed that job for Egan because he liked him. He held something back from me, I’m sure of it. But what — and why?’
Jackie Parton sloughed along beside him, hands in pockets, his shadow squat and foreshortened as they passed under the lights of the freighter moored at the Quayside. ‘Well, then, let’s go back a bit and take a different angle to what you’ve been saying. You know, there’s one feller in all this who stays kind of shady, you know? We’ve got some bloody photographs of him, but he’s just not around to answer questions.’
‘You mean the half-brother — Tommy Andrews?’
Jackie Parton nodded and fingered his scarred lip.
‘Egan still kept hold of those photographs. All his life. For my book, I reckon that means he thought a hell a lot of his kid brother . . . or half-brother . . . makes no difference, really. I wonder just how much he did think of him? How much he would do for him?’
Ward glanced thoughtfully at the ex-jockey. ‘He kept going back to see him, as a youngster, until he went to sea.’
‘Yeh. Until he went to sea. But you know, in old people’s minds things get telescoped, sometimes. What if the timing of things are a bit different? I was told by Granny Skipton that Andrews went to sea, so Egan never came back to Byker no more — and of course, the old then said she knew nothing about Egan’s “trouble”.’
He snickered softly. ‘The sequence could have been a little bit different.’
‘In what way?’
‘You talked about Egan’s character — the way you see him. I don’t disagree too much — take away the Colonel Denby killing and the seven years inside and what have we got? A citizen, that’s all — a quiet, reserved feller, kind of sad and lonely, I reckon. Maybe missing his brother?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘But let’s take a look at Tommy Andrews. By all accounts a young tearaway. In scrapes as a kid — and I’ve picked up a couple of hints that he was hauled up a couple of times. Now he was in no way destined to be a model citiz
en. Would we be surprised if he had decided to turn his hand to a bit of burglary?’
‘Are you suggesting—’
‘Look, we know that Egan took Andrews out to the country with him at one time, but Tommy didn’t like it preferred the city,’ Parton said with a hint of excitement in his voice. ‘And we know he was a bit of a wild lad, too. Now what if he took it in his head one night to do the place at Vixen Hill? He could have seen it, passed it, looked it over while he was out with Egan. What if he’d gone to stay with Egan — and then tried it on at Vixen Hill? Or even just gone out there from town — it was common knowledge Colonel Denby kept a silver collection in the farm. Bloody fool: half the thieves in Newcastle would have hungered for it but wouldn’t have been stupid enough to try a colonel — and they were right, with that shotgun-happy bastard! But a wild kid like Tommy Andrews . . . So tell me this, Eric. What would big brother Egan do if the kid came runnin’ out of the night with blood on his clothes, begging Arthur to do what he always did — get him out of trouble?’
Ward stopped, and turned to stare at the little man beside him. ‘His instinct would be to help him out of the mess — at least, unless he knew Tommy had killed someone.’
‘Would Tommy tell him — even if he was certain?’ Ward nodded thoughtfully. ‘A change of clothing, a warning to get out of the district, and Egan . . . Egan would take it on himself to destroy the clothing – ‘
‘Especially if, after Tommy had skedaddled and was heading for Liverpool or God’s to know where, the news came that Colonel Denby had croaked it.’
‘But when the police tracked to Egan’s cottage, and it came out from the — the—’
‘The Salter woman.’
‘ — that she’d seen him burning bloodstained clothing, he would surely have—’
‘Uh-uh!’ Jackie Parton held up his hand, gave a knowing shake of his head. ‘Think back, lad. Arthur Egan is innocent — okay, accomplice after the fact maybe, but he didn’t croak Denby. He knows he’s innocent. Maybe he’s got a naive belief in British justice, who knows? But more important — if the police come questioning him is he going to shop the kid? The hell he is!’