Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

  Such as a strangely burnt-out car, a stolen shotgun — and that damned Brason mocking me by extracting interest from them and sticking it under my nose.

  I was driving dangerously. Driving away from it. Damn it, I was afraid of interest now, when I’d equally been afraid of boredom. You’re going paranoic, Richard, I told myself. You’re on the way out.

  Then I found myself crowding a tricky S-bend, and flicked the car through it, double declutching and catching the slide just right, and thought: what the hell! Suddenly I’d got my head back, laughing — God knows what at — and at least I was in control of the car.

  There was no desire to drive home to the empty house. I thought round for a diversion, nothing too interesting, nothing too boring, and the obvious thing was to call in at Clive Kendall’s place, to see whether there was any sign of the bastard. I was back into routine. I felt relaxed.

  The information was that Kendall had been released from Long Lartin Prison three weeks before, so we’d been keeping a general eye open for him, just in case he came back to his home town. If he’d dare, that is. But he’d never shown any remorse or evidence of human feelings, and his bungalow had not been sold. The suggestion was that he might risk it, in which event there’d be trouble. So the bungalow was an obvious place to visit, because trouble just at that time I could do without.

  The light was going early. The clouds were low and threatening, and I could hear the sound from the tyres taking on a new crispness. By the time I reached the outskirts of town the steering was becoming light. Here, the new motorway spur was slicing a scar through the stretches of waste land and the deserted shells of the old heavy industry complexes. I took a short cut through the new industrial estates that the council had thrown up. The aspect was depressing. So far it had not been a success, attracting very little in the way of new businesses. Orange streetlights were flashing on with an early dusk, but there was very little traffic, and no pedestrians. Then I was into the parallel streams of terraced dwellings that the ironworkers used to live in, mostly boarded up now, but with a few tatty curtains here and there and the odd blanket nailed up behind the glass. Beyond were the newer estates. Here, at least, the houses did not quite lean against each other.

  There was a crumbling Victorian house at the junction of the by-pass and a minor road. The council had converted it into an old people’s home, and sold off part of the land for residential development. Maybe they’d planned a whole squat group of bungalows, but only one had been built, and that in the most distant, private corner. The entrance to it was from the minor road, along a narrow lane flanked on one side by the wall surrounding the home, and on the other by a tall, sagging fence. I left the Stag parked out on the road, and walked up the lane.

  The snow had partly melted, but was now freezing again. I took the torch from my car and fanned it over the surface. No foot or tyre prints. All right so far. I relaxed a little.

  The sky was orange with reflected light, the fence at my elbow just visible. At the end it just gave up, leaving a gap. Kendall’s bungalow sat facing me, low and threatening. No light showed. The traffic was a distant hum, emphasising the silence.

  I moved in closer. Snow was hanging raggedly on tired shrubs and tufted grass. The garden, if it’d ever had any attention, was now far gone in rank growth. A few trees stood lank and bare to the right, against the wall, and two cypresses were towering on each side of the bungalow’s front entrance, pleased at the unexpected freedom and throwing themselves at the sky.

  I approached from the side. The slabs had lifted unevenly. The first thing I noticed was that the curtains were clean. That there were curtains at all was surprising, because Clive Kendall had been away for eight years. I went on round, fanning the torch through the windows, and in every room it seemed that the furniture was clean, even polished. I didn’t like the look of it. In the living-room grate there was what looked like grey ashes and cinders. I’d have expected soot and mortar dust, after eight years. There was a recess for the side door, and in it I discovered a reinforced brown paper bag, nearly full of Coalite.

  I was beginning to feel unhappy about it, and moved round faster. The double bed in the main bedroom was made, the covers drawn up neatly. In the empty second bedroom there was an untidy pile of what looked like sheets, and had probably been dustcovers.

  He’d been back! Mind you, the suggestion was of a woman’s touch, but I couldn’t imagine that Rona, his wife, would have returned. She had hardly been the type to face out the situation, and hadn’t been able to get away fast enough. The word was that she’d got herself a judicial separation with all the speed that the law, very sympathetic, had allowed.

  It hadn’t been my day. If he’d been there I could’ve backed him against a wall and told him all the dire things that could happen to him unless he disappeared smartly. Then I’d have put a guard round the place until he did, and set a watch on the Clayton brothers. If he was on the loose, then the possibilities were horrifying.

  As I turned away from the kitchen window, a variation in the reflection on the glass caught my eye, and I edged round until I got it clearly. Written in the dust with a stubby finger, backwards for reading from inside, but with the esses the wrong way, was printed:

  THIƧ FOR YOU — BAƧTARD →

  I turned quickly, stabbing the torch in the direction of the arrow.

  One of the naked trees had a branch that sprang from the trunk horizontally. A child’s doll, around two feet tall, had been strung from it by its neck with two feet of cord. I approached slowly. The doll was swinging gently, though I could feel no breeze. The noose was carefully made, just as a hangman would have fashioned it. There was a small tuft of black hair stuck to the doll’s chin, and its neck was broken. The tuft had the appearance of having originally been the bristles of a half-inch paintbrush.

  I fetched out a penknife and slashed it down. My hand was unsteady. I carried it by the string back to the car, and tossed it onto the rear seat.

  When arrested, Clive Kendall had been wearing a small goatee beard, as black as his hair. He’d worn it through the months of preparation and trial, only shaving it off when he went into Long Lartin Prison. It’d begun to look strange, I guess, because his hair had gone completely white.

  2

  ‘It’s bloody Sunday,’ said Ted Clayton. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s Sunday for me, too,’ I told him. ‘Just a few minutes, Mr Clayton. A little chat.’ I treated him to my best smile. I’m told it frightens people.

  Of the two brothers still around town, Ted was the one to tackle first. He was the more aggressive, but he was apt to slip in the odd mistake when pressed. He looked a bit better off than when I’d seen him last, and there were touches of grey over his ears, and a bit more weight. But he still jerked his head in emphasis, and stuck out a prodding finger towards my chest, though never quite daring to reach. He was wearing old slacks in cavalry twill and a maroon roll-neck sweater.

  ‘If it’s about what I think it is....’ he began, but I held up a patient palm and interrupted.

  ‘It’s about that. Can I come in?’

  ‘We was watching a show on the tele.’

  ‘Too bad. It won’t take long.’

  He looked doubtful, but backed away. ‘Better get it said, I suppose.’

  It was a neat semi-detached, a mile or so from Kendall’s bungalow. From a door on the right of the hall there was the thud of throbbing rock, and a voice over it screaming: ‘What is it, Ted?’

  He stuck his head inside the door. Decibels floated hotly around my head. He withdrew quickly, grimacing.

  ‘We’ll use the kitchen.’

  It was cold in the kitchen. The surfaces were clean and tidy, apart from the stacked washing-up in the sink. Ted glanced at it, and his head jerked. ‘That young bitch Edna. Sneaked out again. I warned her...she does the washing up, or else.’ Ted, being tough.

  I sat at the table. There didn’t seem to be much chance of a cup of tea. I rem
embered Edna, a bright, dark child with snapping eyes. She’d have been about seven when it all happened, just the age for Ted to lavish all his fond affection on her, and see in her a reflection of his niece, Coral. He’d used his own child to boost his anger and revulsion.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ I said quietly.

  He glared at me. ‘Get it said.’

  ‘Clive Kendall’s back in town.’

  ‘You’ve come to give me the tip?’

  ‘I rather guess you already know.’

  He leaned forward, chin out. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I think you’ve seen him, maybe spoken to him, and threatened him.’

  ‘Heh, now....’ His slightly bulging eyes popped with surprise. Then he wiped his hand over his mouth, just in time not to cover a smile of superiority. It seemed that my guess was wrong, somewhere.

  ‘Sit down, Ted, I want to talk.’

  ‘I don’t wanta listen.’

  ‘Sit down. You’ll wear a groove in the floor.’

  He looked at me doubtfully, but he’d got a wrong guess to play on. He sat down, hooked his elbows on the table surface, and laced his fingers in front of his chin. ‘I ain’t seen him, Mr Patton.’

  I leaned back. He hadn’t denied the threat. ‘How’s business these days, Ted? Still doing the painting and decorating?’

  The eyes were suddenly wary. ‘I still ain’t seen him.’

  ‘You know, that’s probably the truth, or you would’ve known he’s shaved off his beard.’

  ‘Well, then....’ He frowned, not sure it was the right answer.

  ‘So it was a waste of time to stick one on the doll. What was it — a half-inch paintbrush?’

  His voice rose. ‘What the hell…’

  ‘I’ve got the doll in the car,’ I went on. ‘Maybe there’ll be fingerprints on it.’ I paused. He’d allowed himself a grunt of derision. ‘No fingerprints, then.’ I laughed at his expression. ‘All right, Ted, I’ll cut out the fencing. I know you’ve been along to Kendall’s bungalow. I know you left him a warning, but I’m not going to make a fuss. All the same, we ought to discuss it.’

  I smiled again, but it didn’t relax him. He was tense and twitching, and for a couple of seconds actually dangerous.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you what’d happen if he came back here?’ he jerked out. ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, Ted. I was in court — remember?’

  ‘So nothin’s changed.’

  ‘You’re eight years older, that’s what’s changed. Time to forget...well, not forget, perhaps, but cool it off a bit. You know.’

  He slammed his fist on the table. ‘Christ, you’ve got a nerve!’ he shouted. ‘Comin’ here with your damn preachin’!’ He took a breath. ‘I ain’t forgotten a bit of it, mate. It’s as clear as yesterday. I said I’d get the bastard, and by God I’m going to.’

  I was playing with the pipe on the table surface, keeping my eyes on it. I spoke down to it, quietly and easily.

  ‘And then what, Ted? We’ve got a threat already, so where d’you think we’ll look if Kendall turns up dead? You’d be inside like a shot, and what good’d that do, to you or your family? Talk sense. And don’t tell me you’d plead justifiable homicide...it wouldn’t work, not after eight years. You’d go down, Ted, as sure as I’m sitting here.’

  I looked up. His eyes were dark with anger. The tented fingers were clenched into fists, the knuckles white.

  ‘By God, but you make me sick,’ he whispered. ‘That...that bleeder raped and killed our Arthur’s little girl. He took her and he raped her, and she was just one year older than our Edna. Don’t you know — don’t you feel anything, you cold bastard, sittin’ there and comin’ out with your cheap, snide warnings! If he comes back, I’ll kill him. Put that down on paper. And don’t give me any daft talk about juries. Show me one jury that’d convict me. They’d get up and cheer! Cheer, they would. They’re not all like you…’

  I’d known it was going to be difficult. He hadn’t changed, nothing had changed. I watched him warily.

  ‘I was there,’ I reminded him. ‘There on the job, from the beginning.’

  ‘Oh sure. I remember you. All efficiency, and not one bloody second when you might’ve acted like a human being.’

  ‘We do a job. We try…’

  ‘You couldn’t even protect her, damn you.’

  It was true. I couldn’t meet his eye. ‘That’s unfair.’

  He jerked his head back, getting a better view. ‘Oh dear me, and now I’m unfair. Oh, I’m sorry for you, I’m sure. It must be difficult, this job o’ yours, going round and threatening ordinary law-abiding people.’

  ‘It’s how I want to keep it. Law-abiding.’

  ‘Then ask somebody else. You know where you can stick your law.’

  I began to fill my pipe, taking it slowly. There comes a time when you need to give out information instead of extracting it. ‘Sometimes the job isn’t pleasant, Ted,’ I told him. ‘Sometimes it’s not easy. Talking to you isn’t easy.’ I risked a glance at him. I’d been trying to lighten the atmosphere, but he glared. ‘Arresting people like Clive Kendall isn’t easy, if you’ve been on the job from the beginning. Difficult to keep your hands off ‘em. You can understand that. One bruise, though, one complaint about police brutality, and it could be built up at the trial. Admissions under duress, that’s what they call it. But that one we did right, Ted. We got him sent down for life.’

  ‘Life!’ he croaked derisively. ‘But you’ve bloody well gone and let him out!’

  ‘Not us, Ted. We put him away. It’s just that the Prisoners’ Aid people got interested. One of their pets. They put on the pressure...and you know how it is.’

  He was losing control. So much for my cooling technique. ‘You’re all the same,’ he spluttered. ‘Society...Authority...’

  ‘The Establishment, Ted,’ I offered. ‘It’s there to throw bricks at.’

  ‘It stinks.’

  ‘Then why make it smell worse by forcing it to put you away, when all you’ve done is put an end to a creature who doesn’t deserve to live?’ He was staring, trying to take that in. I pressed on with the advantage. ‘But I’m not going to let you do it, Ted. It’s part of the job, so I’ve got to protect him.’

  ‘A lot of protection you gave to little Coral!’

  I gave it ten seconds. Then I went on: ‘All right, Ted, I’ll tell you something, shall I? I admit it. We fell down on that. I did.

  But it doesn’t mean I’ve got to fall down on protecting Kendall. From you, Ted, and from your brother, Foster...’

  ‘You can always try.’

  ‘And we’ll succeed, you know. So why not leave it to us? We’ll run him out of town, and leave you in peace.’

  ‘I ain’t gonna rest till he’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake! It’s gone, Ted. It’s in the past. You can’t do any good, so try to forget it.’

  ‘Forget it! Jesus!’

  I finally found time to light the pipe. I got to my feet and refastened my coat. ‘I’ll get moving. There’s more snow on the way.’

  I paused in the doorway and turned. By his expression, Ted was indicating he knew I hadn’t finished. But there was the third brother to worry about, the most important — Coral’s father. He’d been the youngest, the least aggressive, but I had to know about him, and place him.

  ‘Whatever happened to your brother, Arthur?’ I asked casually. ‘I heard he and his wife moved out of the district.’

  ‘Somethin’ you don’t know!’ His face came alive with triumph. ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about Arthur. They went south. Gabby’s people came from around there. They thought they could forget.’

  I didn’t like the look in his eye. I was cautious. ‘And couldn’t they?’

  ‘He had a breakdown. Six months after the trial. He took something.’

  ‘Something?’ My teeth were hard into the pipe stem. I had to unclench them with an effort.

  �
��One less for you to threaten,’ he said. ‘And then Gabby was in hospital for another few months. Gabby! We called her that because of the way she kept rattling on. Never get a word in edgeways, you couldn’t.’ He spared a brief softness for the memory. ‘Last I saw of her — this was when me and Foster visited her in hospital — you could hardly get a word out of her.’

  I wanted to say I was sorry, but I thought it would be received as an insult. ‘But she’s better now?’

  He shrugged. ‘We hear from her. A postcard now and then. You know. Reckon she’s just about living.’ Then he went wild again. ‘You hearin’ what I’m sayin’, Mr Patton — Mr Bleedin’ Patton — you hear? When he’s dead, that...thing—when he’s dead it won’t just be for me an’ Foster, it’ll be for Arthur and for Gabby. I’ll send her a postcard. I’ll put on it: HE’S DEAD. In capitals. That’ll cheer her up no end. You bet. So don’t tell me about your duty and your protection, don’t tell me nothin’...’ He chopped it off with his hand.

  His voice had been loud enough to cut through the rock next door. The voice behind me was frightened.

  ‘What is it? What’s going on, Ted?’

  It was Clayton’s wife, a poor waif of a woman, looking worn down by his angers and his bitterness. She peered anxiously from face to face.

  ‘I’m just leaving,’ I calmed her. ‘It’s nothing. Just a friendly visit.’

  I went and let myself out. I could hear him shouting at her. ‘Di’n’t I tell her about the crocks? The lazy bitch, all she cares about is boys...’

  I sat in the Stag, feeling moist and exhausted, and wiped my face with a tissue. It’d been bad, worse than I’d expected. Talking about it had brought it all back, all too close, when I’d thought there was no emotion left. I felt empty, and just a little sick.