Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  She nodded. ‘What I want is a quiet life. I don't think detecting is for me. What do you think I should do?’ Ada seemed forgotten already.

  ‘How about being a library assistant? It's not well paid but it's quiet, dignified, and you get to read all the good books first.’

  ‘That really might suit me, you know. Thank you for suggesting it.’

  As I was leaving I said, ‘Did Ada ever mention Jacky Byfield at all?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thought she was a little madam but she didn't explain what she meant. Once she said, “If that girl doesn't look out, she'll come to a sticky end.” She was right, wasn't she?’

  I nodded in agreement. ‘And that was all?’

  ‘Well, yes … except that one day she came back from the town and said, “I saw a ghost from Jacky's past today.” And when I asked her what she meant, she laughed and said something about bad pennies and selling a chamber-pot to a man with a funny name. Does that make any sense to you?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ I said. ‘But it might be important. I just wish I could get into Ada's house to have a look round.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Gwenda. ‘I've got a key.’

  My surprise must have shown.

  She smiled. ‘Ada was always giving keys to people. She lived in fear of falling. She wanted the neighbours to be able to get in. I didn't tell the police I had a key. I didn't want to be suspected of anything.’ She offered to come with me. ‘It's really quite exciting, isn't it?’

  ‘Very,’ I murmured, hoping that an exploration of Ada's house would reveal something. The trouble was I had no idea what to look for.

  The house still had a vague smell of paraffin and stew and death. And I was convinced Ada still lurked in dark corners. I shuddered. The house felt like a fridge. A dark fridge.

  ‘We'd better not switch on the lights,’ I said. ‘Someone might see.’

  ‘They're all at work,’ said Gwenda. ‘And why are we whispering?’

  ‘I hadn't realised we were,’ I said, deliberately raising my voice. First I checked the kitchen drawers. There were only two, both in a formica-topped cabinet that ceased manufacture in the fifties. The drawers stuck, but I managed to yank them open. In one was cutlery, in the other an orderly arrangement of scissors, matches, tin tacks, string, Sellotape, a book of stamps and a crêpe bandage. ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Gwenda.

  ‘I'm not sure but I'll know it when I see it. Does that make sense?’

  In reply she shrugged. ‘I'm bloody cold and I could do with another drink. Mind if I go?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, wondering why she had wanted to come with me in the first place. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  She raised her eyebrows as if to say ‘rather you than me' and walked out, her slippers making slap slap noises on the linoed hall floor. And then she was gone and I was alone. And I was scared …

  Chapter Twelve

  So scared, that although I forced myself to stand at the bottom of the stairs, all I could do was stare up into the darkness and the closed door at the top.

  Once when I was a student nurse working on the private wing I'd gone into a room to check on a patient at two a.m. The bed was empty, the window open and the curtains fluttered. I had rushed to the window dreading what I would see. And then the door had closed behind me. And behind the door a bald woman laughed maniacally. In her hand she held a wig, waving it in the air. I had thought it was a severed head.

  I climbed the stairs slowly, each footstep a creak as loud as a whiplash. I don't believe in ghosts, I told myself, I don't believe in ghosts. And I didn't. But there always comes a time, just like not believing in God, when you say – I could be wrong.

  At the top of the stairs there were four closed doors. I opened each door quickly and loudly, letting the door bang against the wall and standing well back – just in case. But the emptiness of the rooms stared back at me, an emptiness that was strangely disappointing, like being given a large chocolate Easter egg and opening it carefully and finding it hollow.

  Two of the rooms contained beds; in the smaller room the bed was simply a bare mattress on a divan bed. But in the larger front room, Ada's, a double bed covered with a maroon bedspread dominated the room. On the bedside cabinet a paperback novel lay open, jacket up, showing a handsome couple locked in an embrace. Dream of Love it was called. I had been in this room before, but it was as if I were seeing it for the first time. Ada alive in the house had lent the room life, had given the room its persona. Now the room and the house were as dead as Ada.

  I crouched down to search the bedside cabinet. There were two shelves, the top one stacked with romantic novels, the bottom one with pain-relief sprays, and a writing pad and envelopes – new and unused. As I stood up my arm caught Dream of Love. I was about to put it back when I noticed she'd used a bookmark. A slip of paper, a receipt. On the top in bold black script was the name Adam Angel – Antiques of Quality; beneath, it said, Chamber-pot – £50. I knew immediately I'd found what I was looking for. Thank you, Ada.

  I folded the receipt carefully and put it in my jacket pocket. I closed all the doors as quickly as I'd opened them and it was only at the front door that I paused. I breathed in fresh air that was warmer outside than in and then I slammed the front door hard. As if in final salute.

  Gwenda Carey watched from her front window but came out as I walked into her front garden. She staggered slightly and her voice slurred. ‘Did you find it?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘Will you come again?’

  ‘I might. Will you try for a job in the library?’

  She smiled. ‘I might. Good luck.’

  ‘And you.’

  The morning had unsettled me but I drove to Leys Court accompanied by a gardening programme on the car radio. It was about growing tomatoes, which wasn't a pastime I'd thought much about before. Anyway, it made me feel cosily domestic.

  I called at Kennie's house first. His mother answered the door. With no make-up she looked older and tiny blue veins showed on her cheeks like thin strands of a spider's web.

  ‘You come to see Kennie, dear?’ She didn't wait for my reply. ‘He's not in. He's in the General. Ever so bad he is. Static Asthmaticus they call it.’

  I didn't correct her – it's Status Asthmaticus – but whatever it was called it's serious. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Course you can, dear. I'm just getting ready to go and see him. Come on in.’

  I sat and watched her lose five years in five minutes as she put her make-up on.

  ‘There, that's done,’ she announced, closing her compact with a flourish. ‘I'm ready now. Will you give me a lift?’

  ‘Of course. When was Kennie taken ill?’

  ‘Last night. I'd been out and when I came back he was sitting in the chair gasping for breath. Terrible colour he was, all blue in the face and white round his lips. I called an ambulance straight away and they were here ever so quickly. The ambulance men were marvellous, they really were. Blue lights, siren, oxygen, everything …’ Her voice tailed off and I knew she was desperately trying to keep in control.

  ‘He's ever so poorly, he's struggling for every breath. Poor kid. I think he lost his inhaler in the hospital grounds. It wasn't in his pocket. Funny that, he's never lost it before. We've got spares in the house but I think he was too ill to look. If I'd been here it wouldn't have happened. It's all my fault …’ She began to cry then, her mascara leaving black smears on her cheeks like bruises.

  In the car she chain-smoked but by the time we reached the hospital she had repaired her face.

  ‘Can't go in to him looking a mess, can I?’

  The hospital corridors stretched in front of us like a maze and as we walked Renée clutched at my arm for support. We found Kennie in a side room; intensive care was full. He lay propped on pillows with oxygen being given by nasal tubing, his eyes wide open and full of fear. The red patches of colour had gone from his face, and his skin was as white as the pillow
his head rested on so uneasily. A student nurse, young and timid-looking, stood by his bedside checking his intravenous infusion.

  ‘Kennie, it's your mum,’ she said. ‘You'll soon feel better.’

  But I knew that he wouldn't. At the sight of his mother he pulled frantically at the sheets as if trying to pull himself higher in the bed. His face showed not only the exhaustion of struggling for every breath but the characteristic white pinched nostrils of the dying.

  ‘Mum, Mum …’ he managed to say in a hoarse whisper, the effort of which caused him to slump against the pillows in an agony of breathlessness. It was as agonising to watch.

  Renée, though, was composed; she took his hand. ‘Don't you try to talk, love. Just take it easy. You'll soon feel better. I'm going to stay here until you do. Now just close your eyes, pet, and try to get some sleep.’

  Kennie obediently closed his eyes. And we sat in silence for a long time.

  Eventually Renée looked away from her son and turned to me. ‘You don't have to stay,’ she said. ‘Thanks for giving me a lift. I'll be staying till he's breathing okay.’

  ‘I'll stay on for a bit,’ I replied. ‘I can stay while you go out for something to eat.’

  ‘More like a fag break,’ she said. ‘I'll go outside and have one now while you're still here.’

  When she'd left the room I glanced at the student nurse questioningly. She shook her head in a ‘no hope' motion.

  ‘Has the consultant seen him recently?’ I asked.

  ‘He's coming again soon.’

  I nodded. Kennie began to stir then, as if knowing his mother had left the room. His sunken eyes focused slowly but the fear came quickly. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly and I knew he had recognised me.

  ‘Sh … sh …’ I said, putting my finger to my lips. ‘Go back to sleep, Kennie.’

  But again his mouth opened and he gasped, ‘I … I saw …’ ‘It doesn't matter. Just rest.’

  Again his eyes held mine, and again he struggled to find enough strength to speak. ‘I know who … I saw … it was her.’

  I longed to say ‘Who did you see?’ but even the few words he had said seemed to have worsened his breathing. His eyes had closed and his chest rose and fell as though devils fought in his lungs. He wouldn't be answering any questions now. The student nurse felt his pulse and pressed the emergency bell by his bed and within minutes a doctor had arrived with the ward sister. Renée came back then, her face becoming ashen as she saw Kennie and heard the doctor murmuring about trying more hydrocortisone, more aminophylline.

  ‘I'll wait outside, Renée,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘He's not going to make it, is he?’

  ‘Have a word with the doctor,’ I mumbled as I patted her arm. I stood for a while in the corridor and then a passing nurse brought me a chair. I sat for what seemed like hours and then with the shout ‘Cardiac arrest' all hell broke loose. The door flew open and I could hear the panic in the voices.

  ‘Where's the board? Get him on the bloody floor then!’

  And then the crash team arrived, hurtling along the corridor with their trolley, which in so many cases could just as well have been the mortuary trolley. Renée was bundled out shaking and sobbing and I put my arms around her and cuddled her and knew that poor Kennie would never be a trouble to her again.

  The team tried for half an hour to resuscitate Kennie and then eventually one of the doctors emerged to tell us they had done everything humanly possible and would his mother like to see him now. We walked in, huddled together. The paraphernalia of defying death had been removed and all that was left was death itself. Kennie was at peace, a half-smile on his lips as if he was telling everyone how much better it was not to have to struggle any more.

  Renée became more composed once she had seen him. ‘He's out of it now, isn't he.’ It wasn't a question, it was her consolation. We left the hospital then and walked to a nearby pub. Renée drank two gins and I drank a single whisky.

  ‘I've got a friend,’ said Renée. ‘I'll stay with him.’

  ‘I'll drive you.’

  ‘Thanks for being with me, dear.’

  ‘Will you be all right? Do you want me to call your doctor?’

  ‘No, thanks. I'll be fine.’

  I drove Renée to an almost derelict terraced house in the back streets of Longborough and a tall unshaven man answered the door and immediately put his arm around her. Before going into the house she turned to me and waved as if to say, ‘I'll be all right, don't worry.’

  It was too late now to visit Mrs Tonbridge; I felt hungry, exhausted and miserable. Perhaps going to the office would cheer me up. That was optimistic.

  Hubert, looking worried, met me at the door. ‘The police are here. They insisted on waiting in your office. Don't say too much, will you?’

  ‘Mr Humberstone,’ I said. ‘I'll be as tight-lipped as a driving examiner. I'll not divulge a single family skeleton even when they start on me with their rubber truncheons.’

  ‘You should take life more seriously,’ he said as he watched me go up the stairs.

  Two men in plain-clothes took up most of the space in my office. They looked me up and down with the neutral expression they no doubt reserved when they found something that looked rather nasty. Private detectives I know are viewed by the police as a lower form of life, with as much status in the crime world as an unsuccessful pickpocket. A female detective, though, no doubt had some novelty value.

  ‘How's business?’ said the more senior-looking of the two.

  ‘Booming,’ I replied, giving him what I hoped was my most friendly smile.

  I noticed he wasn't handsome, he looked a bit grey and slightly dusty for that, but he was attractive if angularity and greying hair were any criteria.

  ‘I'm Hook, Inspector – CID. This is DS Roade. We've come to ask you what exactly you were doing at Mrs Ada Hellidon's house on the fourteenth. It seems you found the body.’

  Before I could answer DS Roade said, ‘Mind if we sit down?’

  Roade had acne and looked about nineteen. He also seemed to have the permanently anguished frown of a chronic indigestion sufferer.

  ‘Would you like tea, coffee, a Rennie?’ I asked.

  Roade's mouth opened slightly; I could see he was impressed. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I'd love a Rennie.’

  I smiled at Hook. ‘And you're more a migraine man.’

  He didn't deny it but replied with a gruff request for tea.

  It was quite cosy sitting there drinking tea. I had to admit to them, of course, that I was investigating Jacky Byfield's death. They exchanged glances at that, but when I explained I hadn't had much luck they both smiled knowingly. Just as long as I wasn't ahead of them; that seemed to be their attitude.

  ‘It's a pity about Kennie Litchborough,’ I said.

  They nodded as if they knew, but Roade couldn't contain his curiosity.

  ‘What about him?’ he asked. ‘We still keep a watch on him. Nasty little pervert.’

  ‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘He died today, in hospital.’

  Hook sighed and muttered, ‘Shit' under his breath and then asked me about Ada again. ‘Why do you think she had any connection with Jacky's death?’

  ‘Just a hunch,’ I said. ‘Just a hunch.’

  Hook stood up as if to leave and gave me an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘You just watch yourself. We think Jacky's killer may well strike again. He's probably got a fetish about nurses. Hanging about that hospital could be dangerous. We do have a suspect there. He's got a criminal record – all we need is a bit more evidence.’

  ‘Do you mean Mick O'Dowd?’ I asked.

  ‘That's him.’

  ‘I'll be careful,’ I promised.

  Hook asked me a few more questions about Ada's state of mind and if I knew of any friends. I said very little in a helpful way and he seemed satisfied. He didn't say a word about the PM result.

  As they left I wondered why the police still stuck to the theory
that Jacky's murderer was male. She hadn't been raped and the stab wound in the back was more indicative of a killer who perhaps wasn't strong enough physically to face the chance of a fight. A cowardly male perhaps? Kevin had an alibi and poor Kennie … I couldn't believe he'd had that streak of viciousness in him or, for that matter, a motive. As soon as I worked out why, I reasoned, I'd know who. Perhaps, too, I should tell the staff at the hospital who I was and what I was doing.

  When I told Hubert he didn't agree. ‘You could be next in line. There's been two deaths already.’

  ‘Three,’ I said. ‘Kennie Litchborough died in hospital today. A natural death, he had a severe asthma attack.’

  Hubert raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘It was natural,’ I said. ‘It must have been.’ But suddenly I wasn't so sure. Why didn't he have his inhaler with him and who had he seen? And why was it so important to tell me on his death-bed? Perhaps my murderer was not only far cleverer than I had imagined but also far more dangerous. I've have to start acting like a detective, take a few risks, start asking awkward questions. Make myself a target.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning I drove to Leys Court to see Mrs Tonbridge. The house outside had mean council house-type windows but the paintwork was fresh and a potted shrub stood guard by the front door. I knocked and waited. Then I heard the click, click, shuffle, of someone walking with a Zimmer frame. The door was eventually opened by a tall grey-haired woman with matching eyes and a stoop. She stared at me for a moment.

  ‘My daughter's in bed,’ she said. ‘She's asleep.’

  I smiled. ‘I'm from the Church of the Second Coming. I've come as a replacement visitor for Jacky.’

  She seemed neither pleased nor surprised to see me. ‘Come on in.’ She shuffled and clicked into the living-room and sat down heavily in an armchair by a coal fire.

  ‘How lovely,’ I said. ‘A coal fire.’

  She gazed into the fire for a moment. ‘The Lord's blessing,’ she said. ‘I can't keep it going myself, I have to get Margaret up to put on more coal. She never puts enough coal on. Where did you say you were from? You can sit down.’