Devices and Desires

by P. D. James

But it took another minute of vigorous splashing before his face looked normal and it was safe to open the door and join them for supper.

  BOOK FIVE

  TUESDAY 27 SEPTEMBER TO

  THURSDAY 29 SEPTEMBER

  1

  Jonathan Reeves waited until he saw Mrs. Simpson leave her office for coffee before going into the establishment office, where the personnel files were kept. All the personnel records had, he knew, been computerized, but the original files were still in existence, guarded by Mrs. Simpson as if they were repositories of dangerous and actionable information. She was nearing the end of her service and had never come to terms with computer records. For her the only reality was set down in black and white between the manila folders of an official file. Her assistant, Shirley Coles, was a newly appointed junior, a pretty eighteen-year-old who lived in the village. She had early been instructed in the importance of the Director and the heads of departments but hadn’t yet assimilated the more subtle law which permeates any organization and which defines those whose wishes are to be taken seriously whatever their grade and those who can be safely ignored. She was a pleasant child, anxious to please and responsive to friendliness.

  Jonathan said: “I’m almost sure that her birthday is early next month. I know that the personnel records are confidential but it’s only her date of birth. If you could have a look and let me know.”

  He knew that he sounded gauche and nervous but that helped: she knew what it was to feel gauche and nervous. He added: “Only the date of birth. Honestly. And I won’t tell anyone how I found out. She did tell me, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “I’m not supposed to, Mr. Reeves.”

  “I know, but there isn’t any other way that I can find out. She doesn’t live at home, so I can’t ask her mother. I really would hate her to think I’d forgotten.”

  “Couldn’t you come back when Mrs. Simpson is here? I expect she’d tell you. I’m not supposed to open files when she’s away.”

  “I could ask her, I know, but I’d rather not. You know how she is. I’m afraid she’d laugh at me. About Caroline. I thought you’d understand. Where is she, Mrs. Simpson?”

  “Having her coffee break. She always takes twenty minutes.”

  He stood at the side of the cabinet and watched while she went over to the security cupboard with its combination lock and began twirling the dial. He said: “Can the police see these personnel records if they ask?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Reeves, that wouldn’t be right. No one sees them except Dr. Mair and Mrs. Simpson. They’re confidential. The police did see Miss Robarts’s file, though. Dr. Mair asked for it first thing on Monday morning, even before the police arrived. It was the first thing he rang for as soon as he got into his office. Mrs. Simpson took it in to him personally. But that’s different. She’s dead. There isn’t anything private when you’re dead.”

  “No,” he said. “Nothing is private once you’re dead.” And he had a sudden picture of himself in that small rented house in Romford, helping his mother clear out his grandfather’s things after the old man’s heart attack: the greasy clothes, the smell, the larder with its store of baked beans on which he chiefly lived, the uncovered saucers of stale and mouldy food, those shameful magazines which he had discovered at the bottom of a drawer and which, scarlet-faced, his mother had snatched from him. No, there wasn’t anything left private once you were dead.

  She said, her back to him, “Awful, isn’t it, the murder? You can’t sort of realize it. Not someone you actually knew. It’s made a lot of extra work for us in Estabs. The police wanted a list of all the staff with their addresses. And everyone’s had a form asking where they were on Sunday evening and who they were with. Well, you know. You’ve had one. We all have.”

  The combination lock needed precision. Her first effort had been unsuccessful and now she was carefully turning the dial again. Oh God, he thought, why can’t she get on with it? But now, at last, the door swung open. He could glimpse the edge of a small metal box. She took from it a bunch of keys and, returning to the filing cabinet, quickly selected one and inserted it in the lock. The tray slid out at a touch of her fingers. Now she seemed infected with his anxiety. She gave one anxious look at the door and quickly rifled through the suspended files.

  “Here it is.”

  He had to stop himself from snatching it. She opened it and he saw the familiar buff-coloured form which he had himself completed when he first came to the station, her application for her present job. What he wanted was laid out before him in her careful capitals. Caroline Sophia St. John Amphlett, date of birth 14 October 1957, place Aldershot, England, nationality British.

  Shirley closed the file and quickly replaced it and slid back the drawer. As she locked it she said: “There you are, then. Fourteenth October. Quite soon really. It’s a good thing you checked. What will you do to celebrate? If the weather stays good you could have a picnic on the boat.”

  He said, puzzled: “What boat? We don’t have a boat.”

  “Caroline does. She bought Mr. Hoskins’s old cabin cruiser berthed at Wells-next-the-Sea. I know because he put a card in Mrs. Bryson’s window at Lydsett and my Uncle Ted thought he might have a look at it as it was going cheap. But when he rang, Mr. Hoskins told him it had been sold to Miss Amphlett from Larksoken.”

  “When was that?”

  “Three weeks ago. Didn’t she tell you?”

  He thought: One more secret, innocent perhaps, but still strange. She had never shown the slightest interest in boats or the sea. An old cabin cruiser, going cheap. And it was autumn, hardly the best time to buy a boat.

  He heard Shirley’s voice: “Sophia’s rather a pretty name. Old-fashioned, but I like it. She doesn’t look like a Sophia, though, does she?”

  But Jonathan had seen more than her full name and the date of birth. Underneath were the names of her parents. Father, Charles Roderick St. John Amphlett, deceased, army officer. Mother, Patricia Caroline Amphlett. He had brought with him a sheet of paper torn from a notebook and quickly wrote down both the dates and the names. They were a bonus. He had forgotten that the application form was so detailed. Surely, with this information, a detective agency would be able to trace her mother without too great difficulty.

  It was only when the keys had been replaced in the security cupboard that he could breathe freely. Now that he had gained what he wanted it seemed ungracious to hurry away. It was important to be gone before Mrs. Simpson returned and Shirley was left to face the inevitable question about what he was doing there and might be forced into a lie. But he lingered a moment while she settled herself at her desk. She began threading paper clips together to make a chain.

  She said: “I feel really awful about this murder. I really do. Do you know, I was actually there, on Sunday afternoon. I mean the actual place where she died. We went for a picnic so that Christopher could play on the beach. I mean Mum, Dad, Christopher and me. He’s my baby brother, he’s only four. We parked the car on the headland only about fifty yards from Miss Robarts’s cottage, but of course we didn’t see her. We didn’t see anybody the whole afternoon, except Mrs. Jago in the distance, on her bicycle, delivering the church magazines.”

  Jonathan said: “Have you told this to the police? I suppose they might be interested. I mean, they’d be interested in hearing that you hadn’t actually seen anyone near her cottage.”

  “Oh yes, I told them. And they were very interested. Do you know, they asked me whether Christopher had spilled any sand on the path. And he had. Wasn’t that funny? I mean, it was funny they should think of it.”

  Jonathan said: “When were you there, then?”

  “They asked me that as well. Not very long. Only from about half past one to about half past three. We actually ate our picnic in the car. Mum said it wasn’t the time of year to sit around on the beach getting cold. Then we went down the path to that little cove and Christopher made a sand castle near to the sea. He was happy enough, but it wasn’t warm enough for t
he rest of us to sit about. Mum more or less had to drag him away yelling. Dad went on to the car, and we were lagging a bit behind. Mum said: ‘I’m not having you carrying that sand into the car, Christopher. You know your dad won’t like it.’ So she made him tip it out. More yells from Christopher, of course. Honestly, that kid can be diabolical sometimes. Funny, isn’t it? I mean, us being there on that very same afternoon.”

  Jonathan said: “Why do you think they were so interested in the sand?”

  “That’s what Dad wanted to know. That detective, the one who was here and interviewed me, said that they might find a footprint and want to eliminate it if it belonged to one of us. Dad reckons they must have found a footprint. A couple of young detectives, very nice they were, came to see Dad and Mum yesterday evening. They asked Dad and Mum what shoes they had been wearing, and they actually asked if they could take them away. Well, they wouldn’t do that, would they, if they hadn’t found something?”

  Jonathan said: “It must have been a terrible worry to your dad and mum.”

  “Oh no, it didn’t bother them. After all, we weren’t there when she died, were we? After we left the headland we drove to have tea with Gran at Hunstanton. We didn’t leave until half past nine. Far too late for Christopher, Mum said. He slept in the car all the way home, mind you. But it was funny, though, wasn’t it? Being there on the very day. If she’d been killed a few hours earlier, we’d actually have seen the body. I don’t think we’ll go back to that part of the beach again. I wouldn’t go there after dark for a thousand pounds. I’d be frightened I might see her ghost. Funny about the sand, though, isn’t it? I mean, if they do find a footprint and it helps them to catch the murderer, it will all be because of Christopher wanting to play on the beach and Mum making him spill out the sand. I mean, it was such a little thing. Mum said it reminded her of Vicar’s sermon last Sunday when he preached about how even our smallest actions can have immense consequences. I didn’t remember it. I mean, I like singing in the choir, but Mr. Smollett’s sermons are dead boring.”

  So small a thing, a footprint in soft sand. And if that footprint was made in the sand spilled by Christopher from his bucket, then it was made by someone who had used that path after 3.30 on Sunday afternoon.

  He said: “How many people here know about this? Have you told anyone except the police?”

  “No one but you. They said that we weren’t to talk and I haven’t, not until now. I know Mrs. Simpson was curious why I asked to see Chief Inspector Rickards. She kept saying that she couldn’t see what I could tell them and that I wasn’t to waste police time trying to make myself important. I suppose she was worried, thinking I’d tell them about the row she and Miss Robarts had when Dr. Gledhill’s personnel file was missing and Dr. Mair had it all the time. But you won’t tell, will you? Not even Miss Amphlett?”

  “No,” he promised. “I won’t tell. Not even her.”

  2

  There was a surprising number of detective agencies in the Yellow Pages and apparently very little to choose between them. He chose one of the largest and wrote down the London telephone number. It wouldn’t do to telephone from the power station, and he didn’t want to wait until he got home, where there would be even less privacy. He was anxious, too, to ring as soon as possible. His plan was to lunch at a local pub and find a public call box.

  The morning seemed interminable, but at twelve o’clock he said that he was taking an early lunch hour and left, checking first that he had sufficient small coins. The nearest kiosk was, he knew, in the village, close to the general store. It was a public position, but he told himself that there was no need for particular secrecy.

  His call was quickly answered by a woman. He had prepared what he would say, and she seemed to find nothing strange in the request. But it became apparent that it wouldn’t be as easy as he had hoped. Yes, she said, the agency could certainly hope to trace an individual from the information provided, but there was no fixed charge. Everything depended on the difficulty and how long it took. Until his request had been formally received, it was impossible even to give an estimate. The cost might be as little as two hundred pounds or as much as four hundred. She suggested that he should write in immediately, setting out all the information in his possession and stating clearly what he required. The letter should be accompanied by a down payment of one hundred pounds. They would certainly deal with it as a matter of urgency, but until the request was received they could give no assurance of how long it would take. He thanked her, said that he would write, and put down the receiver, glad that he hadn’t given her his name. Somehow he had imagined that they would take the information down over the telephone, tell him what the cost would be, promise him a quick result. It was all too formal, too expensive, too slow. He wondered whether to try another agency, then told himself that in this highly competitive field they were unlikely to give him any more encouraging news.

  By the time he had got back to the power station and parked his car, he had almost persuaded himself not to proceed. And then it occurred to him that he might make his own enquiries. The name was unusual enough; there might be an Amphlett in the London telephone directory, and if not in London it might be worth trying some of the larger cities. And her father had been a soldier. Perhaps there was an army directory—wasn’t it called the Army List?—which he could consult. It would be worth doing a little research before committing himself to expenditure he might not be able to meet, and the thought of writing to a detective agency, of actually putting his request down on paper, discouraged him. He began to feel like a conspirator, an unfamiliar role which both excited him and ministered to some part of his nature which he hadn’t previously known existed. He would work alone, and if he was unsuccessful it would be time to think again.

  And the first step was remarkably straightforward, so simple that he blushed at his folly at not having thought of it earlier. Back in the library he consulted the London telephone directory. There was a P. C. Amphlett with an address in Pont Street, SW1. He stared at it for a moment then, with trembling fingers, took out his notebook and jotted down the telephone number. The initials were those of Caroline’s mother, but the entry bore no prefix. The subscriber could easily be a man. It could be a coincidence. And the name Pont Street meant nothing to him, although he didn’t think that SW1 could be a poor area of London. But would she have told him a lie which could be detected merely by consulting the telephone directory? Only if she was so confident of her dominance, of his enslavement to her, so certain of his inadequacy and stupidity, that she hadn’t needed to care. She had wanted that alibi and he had given it. And if this was a lie, if he visited Pont Street and discovered that her mother wasn’t living in poverty, what else that she had told him had been true? When exactly had she been on the headland and for what purpose? But these were suspicions which he knew he could not seriously entertain. The idea that Caroline had killed Hilary Robarts was ridiculous. But why hadn’t she been willing to tell the police the truth?

  But he knew now what his next move would be. On the way home he would telephone the Pont Street number and ask for Caroline. That at least should prove whether or not it was her mother’s address. And if it was, then he would take a day’s leave or wait until Saturday, make an excuse to have a day in London and check for himself.

  The afternoon dragged endlessly and it was difficult to keep his mind on his work. He was worried too in case Caroline should appear, should suggest that he go home with her. But she seemed to be avoiding him, and he was grateful. He left ten minutes early, making the excuse of a headache, and within twenty minutes was back at the telephone kiosk in Lydsett. The number rang for almost half a minute, and he had nearly given up hope when it was answered. A woman’s voice slowly and distinctly spoke the number. He had decided to assume a Scottish accent. He knew himself to be quite a good mimic, and his maternal grandmother had been a Scot. There would be no difficulty in making it convincing. He said: “Is Miss Caroline Amphlett at home, please?�
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  There was a long silence; then the woman said repressively: “Who is that speaking?”

  “My name is John McLean. We’re old friends.”

  “Indeed, Mr. McLean. Then how strange that I don’t know you and that you, apparently, don’t know that Miss Amphlett no longer lives here.”

  “Then could you give me her address, please?”

  Again there was a silence. Then the voice said: “I hardly think I would care to do that, Mr. McLean. But if you wish to leave a message I will see that it reaches her.”

  He asked: “Is that her mother speaking?”

  The voice laughed. It was not an agreeable laugh. Then she said: “No, I’m not her mother. This is Miss Beasley, the housekeeper, speaking. But did you really need to ask?”

  And then it occurred to him that there could be two Caroline Amphletts, two mothers with the same initials. The chance was surely remote, but it would be as well to make sure. He said: “Does Caroline still work at Larksoken Power Station?”

  And this time there could be no mistake. Her voice was harsh with dislike as she answered. “If you know that, Mr. McLean, why bother to ring me.”

  And the telephone receiver was firmly replaced.

  3

  It was after 10.30 on the Tuesday night when Rickards came for the second time to Larksoken Mill. He had telephoned his intention shortly after six o’clock and had made it clear that the visit, although late, was official; there were facts he wanted to check and a question he needed to ask. Earlier in the day Dalgliesh had called in at the incident room at Hoveton and made a statement describing the finding of the body. Rickards hadn’t been there, but Oliphant, obviously on his way out, had stayed to receive him and had briefly filled him in on the state of the investigation, not unwillingly but with a certain formality which suggested that he was under instructions. And Rickards himself, as he dragged off his jacket and seated himself in the same high-backed chair to the right of the fire, seemed a little chastened. He was wearing a dark pin-striped suit which, for all its overcareful tailoring, had the slightly seedy and rejected air of a suit relegated to second-best. It looked odd and inappropriately citified on his gangling limbs, particularly here on the headland, giving him the citified air of a man dressed for an informal wedding or a job interview from which he had little hope of success. The thinly veiled antagonism, the bitterness of failure after the death of the Whistler and even the restless energy of Sunday night had left him. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had spoken to the Chief Constable and received advice. If so, he could guess what it had been. It was much the same as he himself would have given.