Chapter Twenty-Two
‘You weren’t planning to get her into bed again, were you?’ Lambert mocked his captive, a diversion to take his mind off his own increasing nervousness. ‘I don’t think screwing’s on tonight’s menu — so there’s no problem about me being upstairs.’
‘You could go out. No one’s likely to see you and they don’t know you anyway.’
‘Read my lips — I’m staying here. Got it? I’m not wandering round the sodding countryside while you two talk. She could be here until midnight. I’ll take a book up with me.’
‘You won’t try to listen?’
‘What for? You’re going to tell me afterwards. We haven’t got time for secrets here.’
Jowett turned away, convinced Lambert would listen from the stairs, limiting how he dare answer if Joyce wanted to talk about him again.
‘Suppose I can’t persuade her? You know — worst case scenario.’
‘We worry about that if it happens. But it’s been four days and she’s still not gone to the police. Even if she says she’s decided to do it now, she’ll give you time to see your sister. I’d put money on that.’ Lambert smiled. ‘Sweet talk her.’
‘She’s not a fool.’
‘Tell me about it … OK.’ He held up his hand against the instant resentment in Jowett’s face. ‘Let’s just hope she’s panting for you as much as you think.’ He picked up the whisky bottle. ‘I’ll take this for company. I’ll get a glass. You stay here and watch for her. She might arrive early.’
Lambert took the knife from the kitchen drawer, hiding it inside a newspaper as he went up to the spare bedroom. Twenty to seven; say two hours before one of them might need to come upstairs. He poured a drink and sat against the headboard of the bed, staring through the window opposite, waiting to hear a car. Why did he need to hold the glass in both hands to prevent it from trembling? More Valium would have helped, but … shit! What are you taking on here? A dickhead and a woman. They’re all that’s between you and … It was easier to think beyond it to the safety of knowing that he had succeeded again, of ceasing to be Giles Lambert, of finding some obscure, corrupt country where a white man with money had power and there would be compensations for what he’d had to give up. Perhaps he’d open a bar with girls to attract the sex tourists, entertain the police, a little discreet gambling in the back, become a character. Not the sort of life he’d planned at Cambridge, but things didn’t always work out … He felt the first twinges of a headache.
From the path came the sound of footsteps, then the click of the catch on the gate; she must have walked. That was good; it meant she didn’t plan to rush away. He heard Jowett open the front door, and muffled voices came from the room below before someone went into the kitchen; he must be getting her a drink. There was no need to listen; what they said to each other would never matter. He just had to wait.
*
Joyce spoke the moment Jowett returned from the kitchen. ‘I want to tell you this straight away … I’m not going to the police.’ She shared the reaction in his eyes. ‘I’ve nearly gone out of my mind thinking about it, but I can’t.’
‘Thank you.’ He handed her the wine. ‘I didn’t kill them.’
‘I know you didn’t. It’s not in you.’
‘But you must still blame me.’
‘For some things … but I don’t want to discuss that at the moment.’
She sat in the centre of the narrow padded windowseat, positioning herself to discourage him from joining her. It was curious that the worst thing could have been resolved so easily. He looked exhausted and she felt regret for what he had suffered.
‘So what do we do?’ he asked. It would have been so much better had he cried with relief, with gratitude that she felt so much for him. It would have been so much better had he understood why she could not tell.
‘What do you want to do?’
Jowett looked at his glass, held in both hands as though he were clasping a chalice. He told himself he had been forgiven, that his life might start again. He wanted desperately to be alone.
‘You know why I came here. To try to … exorcize it.’ He appeared unable to continue.
‘And have you … or have I?’ Her eyes forced him to look at her. ‘Do you just pass the guilt on?’
‘No. That wouldn’t be right. I’d feel no better if I did that.’
She looked out of the window, watching a mother walking her daughter home from Brownies. Sandra Dean, sang in the church choir, soon old enough to take care of the little ones at Sunday School, dreaming of becoming a vet like her father when she grew up. A fragment of Joyce Hetherington’s life.
‘I want to say something and you mustn’t interrupt.’ She remained looking at mother and child, holding hands as they walked up the hill. ‘I’ve decided to leave my husband — and my children, and everything I’ve spent half a lifetime making. I know it’s insane, but it’s not a matter of reason. If it was, I’d have gone to the police by now.’ As she looked at him again, his face was blank. ‘But you mustn’t feel trapped. Either we do this on the right terms or we don’t do it at all. And if you can’t do it because you don’t love me, then all I ask is that you go away — and I mean tonight — and never come back. What I said before will still stand, so you’ll have nothing to be afraid of. That’s it. End of speech.’
Jowett felt culpable; he had not trusted her, not recognized the intensity of her feelings — which was why he had called Giles. But this was the best they had hoped for; once Giles knew she would keep their secret, he would go away again. But he needed to know …
‘What about Giles?’
She sighed. ‘My conscience is giving me hell. If I could see a way to punish him and protect you at the same time, I’d take it this instant. He didn’t just kill them, he destroyed you as well. I’ve just got to try to drive him from my mind … He mustn’t matter to you and me.’
And you’ve still not responded to what I’ve said. I’d accept it with tears, with disbelief, with any promises … as long as you’re honest with me. Or I’ll accept rejection and live with it because I could never hate you so much that I’d … Both of them jumped at the sound of shattering glass above their heads. In the bedroom, Lambert swore at the broken bottle that had slipped from his grasp.
‘There’s someone upstairs!’
‘It’s OK. I left the window open. The wind must have blown the curtains.’
‘There isn’t even a breeze!’ She leapt up, but he stood in front of her.
‘I’ll go and check! There’s no one there.’
‘Don’t be stupid! That was something heavy. Someone’s broken in!’
‘They can’t have done! We’re here.’
‘They can’t see us from the back. Did you leave the door unlocked?’
‘I think so … yeah.’
‘Where’s your mobile phone?’
‘Why?’
‘To call the police!’
‘I’ve told you. I’ll go and check.’
‘Stay here!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘They could be dangerous. I don’t want you thumped over the head. Just find your phone and we’ll get out … listen!’ The fourth stair had creaked for years. ‘Christ, they’re coming down! Put something against the door!’
When he didn’t move, she snatched up a dining chair and jammed it under the knob. ‘Bring the table over … There it is!’ She leapt at the phone on the mantelpiece.
‘We’ve called the police!’ she shouted, punching the buttons as she saw the door strain against the chair. Jowett had still not moved. ‘They’re on their way!’ The chair legs slid fractionally and the door opened a few inches. ‘For Christ’s sake, the table! Go on … Hello? Police! Come on! Yes? Windhover Cottage, Finch. Near the church. Someone’s broken in! They’re trying to attack us … quickly!’
She dropped the phone and grabbed the table herself, in the strength of her panic managing to push it across the floor until it slammed the door shut again. From the other side
came a bellow of rage.
‘For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?’ She was starting to sob with terror. ‘Do something!’
She screamed at a violent bang behind her, and the knife blade burst through one of the door panels. ‘Randall, please! Help me!’
Jowett snapped out of inertia. ‘Get out! It’s all right!’
In the hallway Lambert struggled to pull free the knife he’d plunged at the door in fury, but it remained fast. He’d heard her on the phone and knew the message had got through. Where were the keys for the MG? Jowett had them on him. Was there time to get his own? If he didn’t … He raced upstairs, snatching up clothes. How long before the police arrived? He daren’t trust it would be long enough for him to get dressed. He grabbed jacket, trousers and shirt, then thrust bare feet into his shoes. Back or front? Front too dangerous; he’d have to risk finding his directions across the fields. He pounded downstairs again.
‘I think he’s gone!’ Still pressing her weight against the edge of the table, Joyce was gasping with fright.
‘I’ll go and look.’
‘No! Wait for the police … Pass me my drink.’ She was conscious it was the first time Jowett had moved. ‘Who the hell was he?’
‘He must have been a burglar.’
‘With a knife? Trying to kill us? No way. He was a lunatic.’ Through turmoil, she remembered something. ‘Why did you shout at him to get out?’
‘I was telling him to go away.’
‘But you didn’t say “Go away” … and what did you mean about it being all right?’
‘I meant … he couldn’t get in here. We were all right … and the police were coming.’
‘But I’d yelled that at him.’ She stepped away from the table. ‘I don’t understand you.’
Their heads jerked towards the window as car brakes screeched outside and they saw Christine Sheaffer leap out, talking into a hand radio as she ran to the gate, her jeans and shirt mottled with paint. Joyce pulled the table and chair away as they heard her dash into the cottage.
‘Police! Where are you?’
Joyce opened the sitting-room door. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m with CID. Someone remembered I lived in Finch and called me.’ She raised her radio. ‘I’m in the house. Two adult persons present, both unharmed. Hang on … Is there anybody else here?’
‘No. He ran off.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Only a few minutes.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘No. He went out the back.’
The radio was raised again. ‘Suspect apparently escaped. I’ll check the premises.’ She turned off the radio, then indicated the knife. ‘Did he do that?’
‘Yes. He was trying to kill us.’
‘Don’t touch it.’ They heard her race upstairs and into the bedrooms, then she returned. ‘There’s no one else here. Are you all right if I leave you? Other officers should be arriving soon. OK. I’m going after him.’
‘He’s dangerous,’ Joyce warned.
‘So am I.’ As she left, they heard the faint approaching howl of a siren.
*
Lambert felt shriekingly visible as he ran across empty fields, like a hunted animal in naked desert. The windows of a farmhouse a quarter of a mile away caught the sun, turning them into searchlights that pinned him down. He reached a stile and scrambled over it, the flapping leg of the trousers clutched under his arm tearing on an exposed rusty nail. A lane, barely the width of a car, but it must lead to a proper road. His desperate compulsion was to keep running, but he had to stop and put his clothes on. Gasping for breath he dropped the bundle, then snatched up the shirt, leaving it unfastened as he dragged on trousers and jacket. A wild scarecrow figure without socks, patched with dust, he started running again. Had he left anything behind that would identify him? He slapped his hand against his chest and felt his wallet in the inside pocket. There was nothing else … apart from his fingerprints all over the place and Jowett exposed to questioning. He began to sob, angry tears mixing with sweat, then yelped in terror as he passed a gate in the hedge and the dark bulk of a cow lumbered away, booming in alarm.
Then there was a road, and he stopped at the T-junction, ignorant of which way to go; there was no signpost. Which direction was the cottage? It was impossible to know. He’d run blindly and wasn’t familiar with this open, menacing countryside. The police could have arrived by now, calling for dogs and helicopters … Through smeared eyes, he saw a car appear, heading towards him, and he stepped into the centre of the road, windmilling his arms frantically. He could only see the shape of a driver … and it was a woman. She stopped a few yards in front of him and he ran to the driver’s door; secure in her country life, she was too innocent to have locked it.
She screamed as Lambert wrenched open the door, grabbed hold of her hair and dragged her out, then savagely slammed her head against the edge of the roof until she went slack. Leave her in the ditch? No, she might come round. He dropped her and reached inside for the keys, then opened the boot and bundled her into it. Road blocks? They hadn’t had time — and who knew he had a car? It was a Volvo, capable of speed as soon as he reached a main highway. When he started it the radio came on playing Sibelius, and he switched it off. There was still the question of which way. If Finch was the nearest village, she could have been heading there … Tyres squealed as he turned round. Within half a mile he reached a crossroads. He’d guessed right — Finch was behind him — but none of the four wooden arms on the gibbet-like post said Bury St Edmunds. He scrabbled in the glove compartment, flinching as a stitch of pain stabbed across his stomach, but there was no map. At least the road ahead was straight, taking him farther away. The woman’s bag lay on the passenger seat and he fumbled it open. No cigarettes, but a wallet which he snapped open and looked into as he drove. Photograph of a teenage girl in a frame pocket protected by a plastic film, credit cards in a column of thin slots … and money. He pulled out the notes and counted them on the dashboard with one hand. Five twenties and four tens … his head jerked up as the car rocked violently. He had drifted across the road, wheels ricocheting against the step of the opposite kerb. He swerved back. Concentrate; an accident now would be sick.
The road rose and curved across an abandoned railway line, then ran to meet a dual carriageway; Bury St Edmunds was to the right and he seethed with impatience as he waited for a gap to appear in the traffic. As the roar of a car transporter faded, he heard a hollow banging and muffled yells; he whirled round, but the road behind was empty … The bitch had come round. An approaching van was signalling to turn into the side road, and there was just enough space if he … Violent acceleration forced him back in the seat. The banging had grown louder, shouts amplified in the metal box. If he had to stop and another driver heard it … there was a left turn marked just ahead. Tyres screamed as he braked and hurled the wheel over to screech round the sharp corner into another back road; within a few hundred yards he was in isolation again.
She looked terrified as he opened the boot again, but instinctively tried to sit up towards light and air. Lambert’s fist smashed against her jaw, then he lifted her out and dragged her into a patch of trees by the road, hysterical with frustration. One unlaced shoe slipped off and he swore as his unprotected foot trod on a sharp fallen branch. Then it felt cold as the ground became soggy and he stumbled; he lay panting for a moment until she moaned and started to move. Just beside them was a shallow, slime-covered pond and he forced her face into it, knee on her back as she struggled. It seemed a very long time before she went limp, and he fell back, staring at her.
‘I’m sorry.’ Almost gently, he pulled her out. Brutalized, her face still showed her beauty, and he wiped away the blemish of wet green threads of water plants, as though such consideration might bring forgiveness. Then he began to cry uncontrollably, not now tears of panic, but of fear and a sense of desolation he had never known. He remained beside the body as darkness gathered.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shocked and inquisitive, Finch’s attention centred on the cottage and the police vehicles outside, roof lights flickering blooms of blue glare, radio messages crackling in the quiet. Gathered at a discreet distance, a knot of villagers exchanged rumours as alert alsatians were led into the fields behind. It could only be murder; Joyce Hetherington’s holiday guest, the reserved, courteous young man from London. She was probably being questioned about him, telling what little she knew. But did murder mean there was some blight of violent death in this place? How long ago was it now? Six years — the anniversary was next week — and they had never caught them. What evil had come back? In God’s name, why here?
Joyce’s hands trembled as she held the cup of tea, disliking its sweetness, but accepting it would help.
‘I must let my mother know.’ The realization burst into her whirling brain.
‘We’ve already taken care of that.’ The Inspector was sympathetic, but not prepared to let her leave. ‘I’ve sent an officer round to your house. What about your husband?’
‘He’s in London. He stays there during the week.’
‘We can contact him if you wish.’
‘That doesn’t matter. He’ll be back tomorrow. How long do I have to stay here?’
‘We’ll be as quick as we can … Excuse me.’
Haggard left as a man looked round the door and said he was wanted in the kitchen. The cottage was full of noise, people apparently in every room. She and Jowett had been separated. Sheaffer had returned and was sitting with Joyce.
Victims Page 24