Mr Harper yearned for the mountains, but Nora insisted on sun. She liked oiling her lean, leathery body, cooking it thoroughly, toasting first one side, then the other under the grilling rays while Mr Harper perspired under a beach umbrella with the latest Dick Francis in paperback. The heat made him lethargic; soon he would doze, dreaming of well-done steak.
Things had not always been like this. When they married, Nora’s skin was white and soft and she had a long slender neck which was revealed below her upswept bouffant hair. He’d nuzzled her neck under the lacquered, brightly rinsed coiffure as he’d walked her home after a dance. That was nearly forty years ago, in what seemed like another life, when he was doing his National Service in the RAF. Nora worked in a shop. She had long fingernails, carefully enamelled red. He thought of them now as talons. She was a predator.
It wasn’t so bad at first. They were parted soon after their marriage when Bob was posted abroad, and Nora was left to enjoy her new bridal status. It didn’t stop her from going to dances or the cinema with other men friends. She’d got what at the time so many girls wanted – a ring on her finger – and she’d had a lovely wedding, wearing a satin dress with a huge stiffened skirt and a train, made by her mother. Bob had smiled proudly in his uniform; his fresh face looked scrubbed as a schoolboy’s in the photograph which was now banished to a box in the attic.
There had been no children. Both of them were disappointed, but Nora’s feelings changed when she saw her friends tired and disgruntled, exhausted by crying babies and piles of washing. There were no claims on her. Bob had become a garage mechanic after his demobilisation; he’d been a fitter in the Air Force. Now he filled up the spare time that might have been occupied with a family by buying a clapped-out old Morris Eight for five pounds, renovating it and selling it for sixty. Next, he picked up an old Chrysler; his profit on that was higher. His boss let him work after hours behind the garage where he was employed, for there was no space in the tiny garden of Nora’s parents’ house, where at first they lived. After a while they found a flat, and as things grew easier Bob opened a garage of his own. Soon, because of his growing reputation, he had so much work that he had to take on an apprentice. Since then he had trained over twenty lads, watched them mature, marry, have families. Even though some moved away from him, they never lost touch and many were still working in one of his chain of garages.
Nora would not even do the books. She liked nothing about the car trade. She didn’t like Bob’s dirty oily overalls; she didn’t like his dirty oily smell. She’d always liked things nice, she said, arranging bought flowers on the dresser.
Soon Bob was providing everything she wanted: pretty clothes, gadgets for the house. He worked all hours and prospered. His customers trusted him, judging by results, and recommended him to their friends. He saw very little of Nora. For some time she had had a job in a cafe, sitting in a little booth taking the money. When the café changed hands and the new owners expected her to become a waitress, Nora left.
By now she had lost her youthful plumpness and had developed a confident manner which only became shrill at home; she got a job as a receptionist at a hairdresser’s, and soon began having lunch at the Crown Hotel on half-closing day with Mr André, the owner. People did not gossip, because they thought Mr André was gay (though the word was not used in that context in those days) but he was not: after lunching, he and Nora would drive out of the town on those long afternoons to his flat in Hove. When he died, rather suddenly, of a heart attack, he left Nora the business which was now thriving, concentrating on its middle-class, middle-aged clientele with their regular appointments. Nora grew even cleaner, more fragrant, tougher: her own hair, now, was cropped close to her skull and rinsed to a metallic dark copper colour.
Bob had changed, too. He sold his original garage and workshop to a development company which was acquiring property in the area to build a shopping complex, with offices on the upper floors. Bob opened new premises on the edge of town where, as well as servicing them, he began dealing in new and used cars. He employed a smart young man to manage the showroom and spent most of his own time in the workshop. He became a member of the town’s Chamber of Commerce but was still happiest in his overalls, tinkering with engines. Machinery never talked back at you; if it rebelled or was intransigent, it could usually be gentled and coaxed into an improved performance; at worst, worn parts could be replaced.
It never occurred to him to replace Nora. She was his responsibility. If there had been kiddies, he would think – well, things might have been different. Her shop was her baby. Now they lived in a large house with half an acre of garden which kept Bob out of Nora’s way at weekends. He had a workshop at White Lodge, an elderly Bentley, and an old Invicta which he was rebuilding, so he had plenty of excuses for avoiding entering the house except at meal-times. He did not want to lie on a foreign beach when he had plenty to do at home, but it was his duty to escort Nora for these few weeks each year. He’d given up, now, asking to go to the mountains. He simply dreamed of them instead, reading books about them and watching any climbing programmes that came on television. He had his own study, which he used in the winter when it was too dark to work outside. When he was stationed in Germany, he had spent some weekend leaves in the mountains and had been fascinated by the majesty of the mighty towering peaks. Craftily, he’d tried to tempt Nora by describing how they could drive out, stay in comfortable hotels on the way, like some of her clients who toured France or Italy, but she would not be won round. She craved the sun, she declared; did he begrudge her so little a thing, when she worked so hard for the rest of the year?
He knew that she liked to return deeply tanned; it was some sort of symbol, a suntan, Bob thought, unable to fathom its appeal.
Nora had a new head coiffeur now in the business, known as Andreas – following in the footsteps of the original André – and allegedly Cypriot, though in fact he was a Cockney whose real name was Ted. He followed André’s pattern in other ways, too, and on half-closing day, after the cleaning woman had gone home, returned with Nora to White Lodge. Ted went willingly. He did not bother too much about something that could be treated as routine and would one day pay dividends of one sort or another. His wife in Tonbridge never knew.
Bob had tried to interest Nora in the Himalayas. The prestige of such a trip might appeal to her.
‘What—and get dysentery—or worse?’ A client of Nora’s had returned from some eastern trip with hepatitis and been really ill. ‘Certainly not.’ Nora liked reasonable assurances of pure water and clean food; she had had a stomach upset in Marrakesh and that area was now off the map.
Nora needed Bob. Without him, she could not live in the large house at the edge of the Downs; without him, there would be no tame chauffeur. She could not drive – she had never wanted to learn when he had been eager to teach her – and he dealt with all the maintenance of the house. Alone, she could live well, but must fend for herself in every sphere and, inevitably, lose the status that mattered so much to her now. The house was large enough for them to avoid each other most of the time.
This year, Crete was to be the Harpers’ destination. They had been there before and met some very nice people. Nora had spent hours on the beach, and Bob had hired a car and visited some of the archaeological sites. Crete, at least, contained a mountain; so did Cyprus. Nora was always tired by the time they went away. She would never admit it, but being able to let go – not have to be bright and alert in the salon, remember the potted biographies of long-term clients and ask the right interested questions – was an immense relief. And her ageing body needed a rest from Ted, who was only thirty-three. Sometimes she found it hard to match his energy, yet she longed for it and could not do without him. Bob had never been much use in that respect; no wonder they had no children, she often thought, and once, even, had taunted him with it; he’d gone quite white and begun to tremble in a way she had never seen. That barb had gone home.
When the travel agent telephone
d to say that their tickets were ready, Bob sent the apprentice, Joe, to fetch them. Joe loved driving and snatched any chance of an errand; he was always willing to pick up parts, deliver new cars, drive customers home while their cars were serviced. While Joe was out, Bob opened the drawer of his office desk and drew out a folder. It was a travel wallet from a different agent. He looked inside, checked the tickets and hotel vouchers, then replaced it, smiling.
The Harpers were leaving for Crete on a Thursday. Joe usually took them to Gatwick and collected them on their return, in the Bentley. This time, when he arrived at White Lodge on his motor-cycle, early in the morning, Bob told him that one of their most valued clients had just telephoned about a breakdown. He always left home soon after seven to reach his office by eight, and today his Rover refused to start.
‘Go over there, Joe, and find the trouble. Get him to work first,’ said Bob. ‘I’ve ordered a taxi.’
Joe skittered off on his motor-cycle; he’d go over to the client’s in a car from the workshop which the client could use. He met a taxi approaching White Lodge as he went down the road.
On Saturday evening Bob arrived at Bergen airport. He collected his suitcase and went by bus to the terminal in the town. Contrary to his expectations, no line of taxis waited for airline passengers leaving the bus, but the telephone number of a taxi firm was prominently displayed above a row of public telephones. A rather bossy-looking middle-aged woman, who had been on the same flight, reached the pay-phone before Bob and said, hearing where he was going, that they might as well share a taxi since their destinations were not far apart.
Bob submitted. He sat in the taxi peering eagerly out of the window, an ageing man with sparse grey hair and a florid face. The woman was leaving the next day on the coastal steamer bound for the North Cape, a trip she’d planned for years.
‘Oh yes?’ said Bob.
She told him about the small steamers that sail daily along the Norwegian coast delivering stores, mail and passengers to the small ports on the way.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
He turned a beaming face towards her.
‘To the mountains,’ he said.
‘Perhaps we’ll meet on the way home,’ said the woman. ‘Then we can compare notes.’ She padded off, a sturdy self-reliant figure in trousers and anorak, into her hotel, while Bob continued to his.
In the morning, he collected a hire car and set off to the north.
He had planned his route carefully, and had booked in for a night on the way to his mountain hotel. The twisting roads might make travelling slow; there were ferries to cross; he did not want to hurry.
The journey surpassed his expectations. Often, flying to some beach or other, he had peered from the plane’s window at the Alps or the Apennines, fascinated by the tall peaks coated in crystalline snow like icing sugar, bare of humans. Now he drove past peaks still snow-clad, and through beautiful scenery where lakes split the valleys and waterfalls tumbled down the steep granite slopes of the lower mountains.
In the fortnight that followed, every day was perfect. The weather was fine and Bob woke to blue skies and sunshine; indeed, the sun scarcely set, although he was not far enough north for the Midnight Sun. Instead of a balcony breakfast with Nora, he went down each day to the hotel restaurant where a vast table was spread with an amazing array of dishes – fish, cheese, cold meat, eggs – even salmon. Bob tried them all in turn, and learned to say ‘Tak’ to the fair-haired waitress who filled up his coffee-cup. There were no other English visitors to this mountain hotel and Bob was glad; he did not have to answer questions about where he lived and why he was there alone. In the evenings the television set was turned on in the lounge and he watched old British and American programmes with Norwegian subtitles, sometimes talking to Norwegian visitors, all of whom spoke at least some English. But most nights he went early to bed, tired after walking up mountain trails with his lunch in a pack on his back. He went out in the car every day to a different range.
On Midsummer’s Eve, after dinner, a bonfire was lit in a meadow below the hotel and three fiddlers played cheerful music while the guests danced round. Bob joined in, partnering a cheerful grey-haired Norwegian lady who spoke very little English. His holiday was nearly over.
He needn’t go back at all. He could just disappear over here, he thought: face up to nothing. But he’d need some money. He hadn’t thought of that. He could have brought enough to tide him over for quite some time. He fell asleep wishing he had arranged for a longer absence, and woke in the early hours suffering from mild indigestion. That was what dancing did for you at his age, he thought.
But in the morning he was quite himself again. He was fitter now, after days spent in the open, and able to tackle steeper paths. He had walked on a glacier – reached by an ordinary trail, no climbing needed – and not met a soul. He had pretended to be a real mountaineer, drawing into his lungs the pure air that held the chill of ice.
On Midsummer’s Day he ate his lunch by a stream at the foot of a grassy slope. Kingcups bordered the water; the sun was hot and bees buzzed in the burgeoning heather. He felt rather sleepy after his disturbed night, and dozed off for a while, waking with a start. He glanced at his watch; he’d slept for over an hour.
Bob got clumsily to his feet and began packing up his picnic things, settling them into his bag. For a moment he was tempted to turn back, walk down the mountainside to his car. But he’d planned to go higher, to discover what lay beyond the summit of this ascent; he hoped to see, on the other side, seven giant peaks still white with snow.
The adder struck him as he climbed through the close-matted heather. He saw it rearing up before him, and he felt its bite. He did not collapse at once, walking on for a time, wondering what he should do.
When the English visitor was not in promptly for dinner, the hotel staff were concerned. He had always been punctual. His key was still at the desk, and when dinner was over he had neither returned nor telephoned. He had not said where he was going, despite requests in the hotel literature that visitors should do this.
The duty clerk asked various guests if they knew where he had planned to go. He always went off in the car, but he walked, everyone was aware. He must have heard the golden rule: if you lose the path, turn back. It was better to retrace one’s steps than to get lost.
At ten o’clock a search began and a helicopter pilot saw the car parked at the side of a mountain road. He flew lower, looking at the slope, and he saw Bob lying amongst the heather.
He had died of a heart attack, the autopsy showed; his heart was not in a good state and it could have happened at any time. The adder, by the time Bob was found, had slithered away, and snakes were rare in that area; the bite, not suspected, remained undetected. A good way to go, people said, hearing about it at home, but where was Nora?
A puzzled cleaning woman told the police that Mr and Mrs Harper had left for Crete, but she hadn’t received her usual postcard from Mrs Harper, who always wrote when she was away. What could Mr Harper be doing in Norway?
They found Nora in the inspection pit in Bob’s workshop at home, the Bentley parked above her. Perhaps he had planned to dispose of her elsewhere on his return, with a tale to cover her disappearance, but there was not much doubt about what had happened. Her skull had been shattered with a large spanner which also lay in the inspection pit, wrapped in a rag.
Whoever would have thought it of him? It was the wonder of the week in the district. Ted, at the salon, joined aloud in the general amazement, but he knew the truth. He’d always quite liked old Bob and sympathised with his wish for a different holiday.
‘I don’t know why you and Nora don’t go your own ways,’ he’d said, over a beer with Bob after he brought Nora home one closing day. Bob thought they’d been doing the books. Ted spoke in his normal Cockney voice; the Greek accent was kept for the salon. Ted, himself, was beginning to wonder how much longer he could keep his affair with Nora going. At first it had been a ch
allenge, and the material benefits were considerable – often cheques on the side. But there was a new girl, now, at the salon, called Loraine, who was not in awe of him, and who was trim and pert; he was drawn to her, and they’d had a couple of dates already. Nora would be furious if she found out, and she hadn’t yet made him a partner, a promise she had been dangling for over two years now.
She had told Ted that she had left him the business in her will.
‘What about Bob?’ Ted had said.
‘He’s never needed it—or me—not really,’ Nora had answered. ‘All he ever thinks about are cars and his mountains.’
After his talk with Ted, Bob had brooded. He could go off on his own. He suggested it, but Nora said people would think it most odd.
‘Even if I came away with you later?’ Bob had argued.
‘Even so.’
She’d turned from him then, presenting the nape of her neck, and he’d thought how easy it would be. He’d do it the last evening before they were due to leave for Crete. If he lost his nerve, or an opportunity didn’t occur when she wasn’t looking – he didn’t want her to see the blow coming or to feel pain – nothing would be lost except his travel tickets.
As it was, after pointing out that the lilacs were spreading too widely and needed trimming – she liked everything neat – Nora had, on that last day, bent to examine some mud on her shoe. Bob was holding the spanner; she’d dragged him out from the workshop to complain about the lilacs. It was done in a second.
He hadn’t decided what to do afterwards. He’d dump her somewhere, probably. Somehow that didn’t matter. Not now. Not now that he had his chance of the mountains.
When everything was settled, Ted duly inherited the salon. He left his dull wife and in time he married Loraine. The motor business went to a distant cousin of Bob’s, for he had not made a will and it was obvious Nora had died before him. Tracking down the legitimate heir was quite a task for the lawyers.
Pieces of Justice Page 12