Face Value (Richard and Amelia Patton)

by Roger Ormerod

‘So he must have seen somebody coming, fired...and then realised it was a...well, a friend. But hell, sir, that person must’ve been carrying a shotgun. It isn’t the sort of thing you can hide in a pocket. And that doesn’t make it look friendly, does it? I mean — he fired the Remington, two separate barrels, and missed both times — must have done — when the range couldn’t have been more than thirty yards. Then he sees it’s a friend, and even so he doesn’t see the carried shotgun. And shuts the window, sir! It’s just too much to swallow.’

  ‘But it’s pretty good, son. Needs more thought, of course. I only wish I had time for it.’

  He grinned weakly. ‘I get plenty of time for thinking, out here.’

  I said: ‘Come on, let’s go. I think I’ve seen all I want to now.’ We walked back to the cars. He seemed embarrassed. Cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps I’ll meet you again, sir.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ I said, tossing the rusted shotgun onto the rear seat.

  I drove back to the station. It was getting on towards midday. Everything was quiet. In the general sergeant’s office they’d all got their heads down, the two officers Donaldson had borrowed from Division looking lost and bored. Nobody spoke to me. At the front desk I’d sensed an awkwardness. Of course, Donaldson had had the morning with Amelia, but nobody was anxious to tell me about it.

  ‘Anybody seen Ken Latchett?’ I asked the desk sergeant. ‘He didn’t come back with Mr Donaldson, sir.’

  ‘Back from where?’ I tried to make him say it, but he looked past my head at a wall poster about Colorado beetle.

  ‘Where they’d been, sir.’

  I hadn’t wanted to tackle it that early. A pattern seemed to be coming together, but I wanted more time with it, and there was something missing from it somewhere. I didn’t want to be pushed.

  He said hopefully: ‘I’m sure he’ll be back, sir. Mr Donaldson’s called a conference for three-thirty.’

  I turned away, and went out to my car again.

  Ken was parked at the lead-in to the cul-de-sac, and reached me before I’d climbed from the Stag. I took one look at his face, and knew why he’d waited for me.

  ‘Donaldson’s finished, I’m told.’

  ‘We were there for two hours, Richard. Now listen....’

  ‘What did she tell him?’

  He put a hand on my arm. ‘What did she tell you, Richard? That’s the point.’

  ‘It was all in my report.’

  ‘Then Donaldson got further. Her relationship with Kendall…’

  ‘I know about that.’

  He was silent.

  ‘How did he treat her?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘You know Donaldson.’

  ‘How, Ken?’

  ‘There were just the two of us. He was gentle as you like at first, very careful, leading her on. She started all confidence, but Lord, he can really dig in. Kept at it, and at it, insinuating, not accepting anything. She just had to justify herself, and he didn’t give her one second to take a breathing space. You handed it to him,’ said Ken, with more than a hint of contempt. ‘That shaving-soap bowl!’

  ‘I had to know where I was,’ I growled. ‘We had to know.’

  ‘It’s like that, is it?’

  ‘I’m not going to spell it out.’

  ‘Oh hell!’

  ‘This conference he’s called…’

  ‘Three-thirty. All sergeants, and Phillips and Kelly they lent us from Division, Merridew, and Brason. You’re not thinking of busting in there!’

  I jutted a lip at him and managed a light tone. ‘I’m not thinking at all, Ken. Not one thought. Now...get out of my way, will you.’

  ‘Anything I can do....’

  ‘I know, Ken. Thanks.’

  She opened the door before I’d reached it. She did not speak, simply stood back. Even that small movement was stiff and formalised, as though her brain could spare nothing for physical control. I took one look at her face, then slid an arm round her waist and led her through into the kitchen, sat her down at the table, and put on the kettle. It was impossible, until I’d taken a stronger grip on my emotions, to look again at her face.

  She whispered: ‘You did warn me.’

  I found crockery, placed cups and saucers and milk and sugar in front of her. Her fingers clawed towards my hand, but I withdrew it gently. The kettle was singing. I asked: ‘Where d’you keep the tea?’ But she did not reply. I hunted it out, and every movement had to be carefully controlled to the task at hand.

  Then at last I sat opposite her. Her eyes were huge, red with strain and weeping. ‘What have you told Donaldson, Amelia?’ I asked.

  ‘Everything I said to you, Richard.’ Her voice was weary, drawn from somewhere way back.

  ‘What have you told him that you haven’t told me?’

  ‘He went on and on, repeating, going back, insisting...’

  I’d caught the note of hysteria in her voice, and noticed the shaking of her fingers. I poured the tea myself, and pushed her cup towards her.

  ‘Drink your tea.’

  ‘He wouldn’t give me time to think.’

  ‘Your tea.’

  She sugared and milked it. I’d forgotten: milk first, for her. The cup clattered against her teeth. It was too hot, and she gulped, gasping, but the shock seemed to steady her.

  I spoke gently, drawing it from her. ‘What did you tell him that you were afraid to have me hear?’ She shook her head. ‘I must know.’ There had to be something, to justify this.

  She gave me one startled, terrified glance, then she looked down at her cup, and answered into it.

  ‘There was one thing he couldn’t understand. All the rest...oh, the bitterness and the contempt he threw at me! I’d told him about Clive Kendall, how I’d wanted to help him, and he kept saying yes, yes, yes. Just wouldn’t let it alone. Wouldn’t believe I’d want to help him. Wouldn’t accept that I’d get his bungalow ready for him. Sneered at everything I said. He made me, Richard...made me justify myself. As though I needed to! He made me feel like something cheap and dirty. There...there was this one thing he couldn’t get round. My husband, a stranger to the district, and he’d been discovered in a cottage he just couldn’t know about. And it was the place Kendall was born. Kendall’s own early home, and my husband was there! He wouldn’t believe it could be chance. Threw it at me. As though I’d got to prove something. How could a stranger find that cottage? He kept on and on...’

  ‘He thought originally that it had to be Kendall’s body. But go on — how did your husband know about it, my dear?’

  ‘Kendall...in the end he was afraid. I had to encourage him, and persuade him. I told him he’d got to face up to it, or it was all worthless. All my work.’

  ‘He’d love that.’

  ‘And so...so, I had to agree, finally, to take a look at the cottage, too. Well, not clean it up. Just go inside and look round it. You know.’ She looked up into my face in desperation. ‘You know, Richard. Don’t stare at me like that. Please,’ she whispered, and I tried to smile. ‘I promised I’d go there, and tell him that at least the glass was still in the windows. I didn’t approve of all this, Richard, but he wanted somewhere in case he had to hide. I went — and of course my husband went with me. That’s all there is to it, Richard. All there is.’ She looked bewildered and pathetic.

  There seemed to be an inability to focus. Her face swam in front of me, and I felt lost. Suddenly I needed her, and she’d given Donaldson all there was, all he needed — the evidence that she, too, knew the location of the cottage.

  Somewhere inside there should have been an angry grief, that she’d kept it from me, but there was nothing.

  ‘All there is!’ I said softly. ‘Oh my God!’

  Then my hand found hers.

  9

  The instinct was to remain with her until they came, but it would have meant inactivity, and I couldn’t face that. Yet I told myself that I must not go to the conference. All they would be doing was polishing Donaldson
’s case, so that he could march in with a warrant for her arrest. And I had nothing to throw back at him. It would be all formal and unemotional. I tried to explain the process to her.

  ‘You make it sound as though I’m lucky,’ she said ruefully. But she was certainly more cheerful than she’d been. ‘Lucky he didn’t take me away straightaway, I mean.’

  ‘He’s not a man who acts on impulse, and you’re not going to run away. He’s got to give himself time to think.’

  I looked round vaguely, feeling confined.

  ‘Is that a hint?’ she asked.

  ‘Was I so obvious?’

  ‘You’re restless. Go if you must. But...be back here, will you? Be back when he comes again.’

  ‘Of course, my dear.’ But I looked at her blindly.

  I drove to Clive Kendall’s bungalow, for the very good reason that I could think of no other place to go. And because I had to feel, still, that Kendall was involved. She had given me lunch, on my insistence, to give her something to distract her. I felt heavy and uncomfortable with the food, my mouth harsh because I’d been smoking too much. My mind was in a turmoil.

  Once again I left the car parked on the road. There was now no trace of the cleated-sole prints. Overhead, the clouds were gathering again. I could smell the snow in the air, and feel again that subliminal uneasiness that didn’t seem as though it would ever leave me.

  The bungalow seemed unchanged. I walked carefully round it, but there were no more threatening gestures or messages. I peered through the windows. Nothing indicated a visit by Kendall since I’d been there before. I eased my bulk into the recess, in which the back door was set sideways, and suddenly it seemed that Kendall was to blame for more than the rapes and the killing of Coral Clayton. All this was a legacy of Kendall, all that was happening now being a proliferation of Kendall’s personality.

  I wedged my feet against the brickwork behind me, put my shoulder against the door, and burst it open with one savage thrust.

  The kitchen, which had seemed bare from outside, had small indications of one visit, at least. An unwashed plate and tumbler were on the surface just out of sight from the window, and when I opened the refrigerator door the electricity was connected — had Amelia arranged that? — and the light came on. There were two frozen beefburgers in the freezer compartment, and half a packet of peas. The milk in a bottle in the door was curdled. There was a packet of unopened cheese, and a block of butter, merely scraped. I shut the door, and went on through to the hall.

  There was nothing to find, I grumbled to myself, but every instinct told me that there ought to be. When I walked into the hall, there was a smell of stale violets, and on the hallstand was a note. You must do your own shopping, but I’ve started you off. A.T. The paper smelt of violets, too.

  Started him off!

  Beneath the letter-box slot there was an envelope on the floor. I picked it up by its edges, training warning me about fingerprints. The flap was not sealed, and I edged out a single sheet of paper. On it was printed:

  CORAL DIED AND SO WILL YOU.

  BUT SLOWER, YOU BASTARD. SLOWER.

  I crumpled it up angrily and tossed it onto the hall-stand. Why the hell should I worry any more about the Claytons?

  Then I went on through into the living-room, and all was neat and tidy. There was no indication that the place had ever been used for living in. The tidyness was impersonal, like the institutional perfection of a spare hospital bed. But then, standing there, I became aware that this was her doing. This, Amelia had done for Clive Kendall, and the thought revolted me. I flung a chair away from my path, and watched it almost with detachment as it fell on its side against the wall. There was a ringing in my head, and a dull, bellowing fury inside me, thrusting for release. My restraint was stretched to its limit. The chair was a gesture, a tiny valve, a micro-switch that needed only a touch to provoke the thump, thump, thump of the more powerful pump.

  I stood, then, in the chaos of the room, blood in my eyes and my fury boiling. Whatever she had done for Kendall had to be destroyed. That I saw with clarity. I ran into the bedroom, toppled the wardrobe onto his face, tore curtains down and the sheets from the bed, smashed the mirror over the dressing table that had been Rona Kendall’s, tore drawers from beneath it and shattered them in a blind, mad fury against the wall. And stopped, very still, staring down at my feet.

  Amongst the debris there was lying a small revolver, black and shining. I reached for it, and hesitated, then moved quickly to the doorway and put on the light. Then I returned to it, down on one knee, examining the pistol without touching.

  One connecting link I’d needed. Was this it?

  It was a Smith & Wesson, and seemed to be of .32 calibre. The cylinder was fully loaded. I hooked a pencil into the trigger guard and brought it out beneath the light, and smelt the barrel. The only smell was of oil, as though it had been well preserved for an anticipated long wait. It was possible he’d had it, even before his arrest, but had been afraid to flaunt a loaded weapon.

  Even with the naked eye I could see that the oil film was quite undisturbed. There were no traces of fingerprints. I risked, then, handling it, the butt slippy in my hand. I flipped out the cylinder, and peered along the barrel, against the light. I was looking for evidence of fouling. But even inside the barrel it was well oiled, with only a fleeting glint here and there. I tilted the barrel this way and that, trying to catch the light, and then realised that what I was looking at was the refracted light thrown by several tiny slivers of glass, caught in the film of oil.

  For a moment my mind darted towards a conclusion, but then retreated. I couldn’t force it to complete the equation. I thrust the gun into my pocket, and looked around at the damage I’d done. I couldn’t remember doing it. Then, decisively, I tramped through the bungalow and out through the back door.

  The light was failing. Heavy clouds were pressing low. I raised my head and saw that Foster Clayton was leaning against one of the stark trees. Smiling, he eased his shoulders upright and strolled towards me.

  ‘What the hell’re you doing here?’ I demanded angrily.

  ‘I could say the same for you.’

  ‘Where’s Ted? I bet he’s around somewhere. Ted! Ted Clayton.’

  Ted came from round the end of the building. He was walking with a bouncy gait, his head cocked, his voice, when he spoke, defiant.

  ‘Somebody called? Did somebody call me, Foster? Well now, if it isn’t the Inspector! Been breaking and entering, have we?’

  ‘I warned you...’

  ‘Warnings!’ said Foster in disgust. ‘Who the hell’re you to chuck around your warnings’

  They were advancing on me from two directions. I set my shoulders against the wall. ‘You damn fools,’ I said. ‘We’ve got a murder investigation going, and you haven’t got the sense to keep your heads down.’

  Neither of the brothers seemed impressed. With their shoulders relaxed, they pressed in close to me.

  ‘What’ve you done with Kendall?’ asked Foster, maintaining a pleasant tone.

  But Ted was more aggressive. ‘Where’ve you hidden the bleeder?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got evidence of your activities. A doll hanging from a tree over there, and a shotgun tied to that one there. And now a threatening note through the door.’

  ‘Not us,’ said Foster, smiling.

  ‘Coral died, and so will you,’ I quoted. ‘But slower, you bastard, slower. What does that sound like, if it’s not you?’

  Foster’s face was immediately blank, but Ted crowed: ‘That’s what he’s gonna get.’

  ‘Shut up, you idiot,’ Foster hissed.

  ‘And that drawing on the window,’ I shouted, feeling I was on the ascendant. ‘Who’s that but you, Ted?’

  ‘Gerraway.’

  ‘Look at it. On the back window.’

  ‘Don’t need to look.’

  ‘Go and look at it, damn you!’

  Ted leaned his face close, sneering, but th
en his eves slid away and his face withdrew. He turned away to stare at the window.

  Foster said: ‘We ain’t done anything around here, and you know it, Mr Patton.’

  Ted whirled. ‘He’s done that his bloody self!’ he claimed, gesturing towards the window.

  I sighed. ‘Talk sense for once.’

  But Ted was furious, feeling that a trap had been laid for him. He came close to me and poked out a finger.

  ‘Don’t you put a finger on me,’ I warned him. I could feel my anger rising again, and it scared me.

  Ted thrust out his palm against my shoulder. More to avoid contact than anything else I stepped back, and was thrust forward at once by Foster, who had stepped sideways to get behind me. They’d played this game before. I twisted away from between them, reaching out my left hand to grab a portion of Ted’s pullover, and brought my right hand from my pocket. It happened to be clasped around the revolver.

  ‘Take your hands off me!’ I roared, and the muzzle was under Ted’s chin, with Ted staring back at me in surprise and horror. Foster stepped back. ‘Heh, he’s bloody insane.’ And I was shouting: ‘I warned you, Ted. I warned you!’

  It was the first time I’d ever pointed a pistol at anybody, in all my career. And this one was loaded. What are you doing? I asked myself. Take a grip on yourself. Stop! Stop now!

  ‘Now you’re going to talk,’ I was snarling. Ted’s head was going back, back under the impulse of the pistol, until I wondered if his neck would break. ‘The doll! That was you. Wasn’t it you?’

  Ted croaked: ‘Get him, Foster.’

  ‘I’ll blow your head off,’ I snapped. ‘Talk. The doll.’

  ‘Oh no. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘It was Foster, then?’

  ‘No. Neither of us.’

  ‘And the shotgun?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ted appealed weakly. ‘Watch what you’re doin’ with that thing!’

  I was so caught up in a blind fury of frustration that I was nearly choking him with the muzzle. There was a groaning, but it could have been me, and fingers were clawing at my elbow. Foster, finding his confidence failing him, was appealing: ‘Now, Mr Patton. Mr Patton. Go easy.’ His voice was a frightened whine.