Death at Hazel House

by Betty Rowlands

  She moved away, po-faced. He recalled her similar lack of response that morning and felt a stab of irritation. ‘What’s up with you?’ he asked for the second time that day and, as before, she replied, ‘Nothing.’

  His eye fell on the evening paper lying on the ground at her side. Black headlines screamed of the hunt for Lorraine’s killer. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘you scared of that happening to you? Is that what’s on your mind?’

  ‘I’ve told you, there’s nothing on my mind. I must go and see to the dinner.’

  It seemed to Hugo that she deliberately avoided looking at him as she went into the house. His irritation increased. Here he was, trying to be nice and considerate and getting the cold-shoulder for his pains. He had problems of his own, but he wasn’t moaning about them to her. He was about to follow her indoors to have it out with her when he heard the sound of wheels on the drive. A few moments later the doorbell rang.

  ‘Answer that, will you,’ he shouted over his shoulder before settling back to finish his second drink and admire the expert arrangement of trees and flowering shrubs that screened him from his neighbours. He put down the empty glass and closed his eyes, only vaguely aware of the voices coming from inside the house. He yawned, hoping it wasn’t anything that would disrupt the evening. It had been quite a day and all he wanted now was the chance to unwind.

  The voices came nearer – mostly Barbie’s, with the occasional monosyllabic reply from a man. She sounded animated, almost excited. Her high-heeled shoes clicked on the patio as she stepped out of the house.

  ‘You’ll never guess who’s here!’ she said.

  Reluctantly, Hugo opened his eyes, squinting upwards, momentarily blinded by the evening sun so that for an instant he was aware only of the figure of a man behind Barbie, a man whose feet had made no sound on the flagstones surrounding the pool and who towered almost menacingly over his own recumbent form. Then a familiar voice said, ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Charlie.’

  Seven

  ‘Guess you’re surprised to see me, Charlie,’ Terry remarked as Hugo, slow to react and momentarily speechless, struggled into a sitting position. A hand like a slab of concrete landed, none too gently, on his chest and forced him back among the cushions, where he lay staring up into eyes like grey pebbles set in flesh-coloured granite. He was unhappily aware that he had been completely wrong-footed and as his mind grappled with the unwelcome turn of events, astonishment turned to anger. Characteristically, he found a scapegoat in his wife.

  ‘What the hell did you let him in for, you stupid cow!’ he shouted. The hand pressed down harder on his chest, the fingers knotted round the front of his shirt. He found himself labouring for air. ‘For Chrissake, Tel, let me breathe, will you,’ he gasped.

  Terry’s face loomed close to his. ‘That ain’t no way to talk to your wife and it ain’t no way to greet an old friend neither,’ he informed his unwilling host. ‘Maybe you should apologise.’

  ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve—’

  The fingers shifted their grip and settled round Hugo’s throat. ‘Tell Bren you’re sorry.’

  ‘OK, OK. Sorry, Bar… Bren.’ Instinct warned Hugo Just in time that to call his wife by her assumed name would undoubtedly cause derision and possibly increased discomfort. He began to bluster. ‘No offence meant, Tel, it was just the shock at seeing you… I had no idea… how’d you know where I live?’

  ‘Well now, that’d be a good story for a winter’s night, wouldn’t it?’ There was an underlying hint of intimidation in the almost jocular tone, but at least the unbearable pressure on Hugo’s windpipe was released – slowly and deliberately, as if to remind him that it could be renewed at any time.

  Terry reached behind him to grab a chair, dragged it to within a couple of feet of Hugo’s lounger and sat down. His eyes never left his victim’s face and their expression left no doubt that any attempt to move would be asking for trouble. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his face grim. ‘This ain’t no social visit, Charlie boy,’ he said softly. ‘But you already know why I’m here, don’t you – Mister Hugo bleeding Bayliss!’ The final words were uttered in a contemptuous snarl. ‘What fancy name did he give you, Bren?’ he added over his shoulder to Barbie, who had been standing behind him, motionless. Hugo saw her mouth twitch, her eyes wide with apprehension.

  ‘I’m called Barbie now,’ she faltered. ‘We just thought, when Charlie decided to go straight, it’d be nice to have new names, so’s we could forget the old days. We was trying to make a new life here, wasn’t we, Charlie?’ Nervousness made her forget the grammar she had studied so diligently and the middle-class accent she had tried to acquire in an attempt to feel at ease among the people Hugo made a point of cultivating. ‘We was ever so sorry when the bank job went wrong and you and Frank got sent down, but there wasn’t nothing we could do.’

  ‘No?’ A sneer spread from Terry’s mouth to his eyes. ‘Didn’t he tell you how it happened that he never got caught and sent down?’

  ‘How could he… he wasn’t even there… was you, Charlie?’ She rounded on him, her eyes pleading for reassurance, but with a hint of desperation in her voice as if in her heart she already knew the truth.

  ‘That what he told you?’ said Terry. She nodded, dumbly, staring at the ground. ‘And you believed him, of course. You always was a bit soft. Must have been, to marry him.’ He cast a withering look at Hugo, who glowered back at him. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘since Charlie here never seems to have mentioned it, I’m sure you’ll be interested to know that he owes Frank and me a little matter of forty grand between us.’ He turned back to Hugo and his voice took on a note of mock apology. ‘That’s why I’ve took the liberty of dropping in on your cocktail hour without an invite, just to collect my cut of the bank job that me and Frank got sent down for – after you left us to take the rap, you double-crossing shit!’

  He raised his voice on the final words and they seemed to echo and re-echo in the soft evening air, bouncing off the flagstones, skating like flung pebbles across the smooth surface of the pool and out into the garden beyond. Hugo licked his lips and glanced nervously from side to side as if fearful that at any moment curious neighbours would appear, hoping to hear more of the sensational drama so unexpectedly unfolding on their doorsteps.

  It was Barbie who broke the silence that followed Terry’s denunciation of her husband. ‘Charlie, is this true?’ she demanded, her voice a thin wail. ‘You told me you had nothing to do with that bank job – was you lying to me? Is that why we left London and all our friends in such a hurry?’

  ‘I’ve told you before not to go poking your nose in what don’t concern you,’ said Hugo through his teeth, ‘but if you must know, the lads got round me to do that drive for them so—’

  ‘So he decided to be nice and obliging, and then keep all the cash for himself instead of sharing it with his mates,’ Terry broke in. ‘Nice bloke, your Charlie.’

  ‘I never meant to,’ Hugo protested. ‘I just panicked when I heard Frank had clobbered that punter. I’d have got your share to you once the heat was off. Then it turned into a murder rap and I couldn’t do nothing, could I?’

  ‘Bullshit! You planned all along to keep the lot.’

  ‘Honest, Tel! I meant to pay you back – and Frank. I didn’t know you was out.’ Little by little, Hugo was recovering his nerve. If he could bluff things out, stall Terry for a day or two until the police got on to him about the Chant job, he figured he could get away with it. Soon there’d be the knock on the door, the questions about the planted evidence, the enquiries and checks that would reveal how Terry Holland had done time for his part in a violent crime… that gentleman would soon have something more serious than twenty grand on his mind. Cautiously, feeling more confident by the minute, Hugo shifted into a more upright position on the lounger.

  Terry appeared for the moment to have lost interest in him. He got up and put his hands in his pockets. He was wearing overalls and grubby trainers, as if he�
�d come straight from his last job of the day. Hugo thought of the smart suit he wore to the office and glanced down with a feeling of superiority at the cream linen jacket and slacks he liked to change into on summer evenings. He patted his lapels and smoothed out the creases that Terry’s grip had left on the front of his made-to-measure shirt – all the time keeping a wary eye on his former partner in crime, who stood looking around, directing his gaze this way and that, taking everything in: the house, the garden, the pool, the sauna, the ornamental tubs brimming with flowers, for all the world like a prospective buyer sizing the place up.

  ‘Well, now, I wouldn’t mind living somewhere like this, Charlie,’ he observed, and a stranger listening in would have been hard put to it to detect anything but a friendly admiration in the comment. ‘Sauna too,’ he added, as if he had only just noticed. ‘Really done yourself proud, ain’t you? Sexy things, saunas, so I hear. You go in it with him, Bren?’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable was a faint whisper.

  ‘You want to watch he don’t take some other bird in there – and mind you don’t have it too hot, Charlie, not with your dodgy ticker. Or is it OK now you’re living the high life? There don’t seem much wrong with you at the moment.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said Hugo icily.

  ‘Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t be good for business if you got sick, would it? I particularly want your business to do well – till you’ve paid your debts, that is. After that, I don’t give a monkey’s. Unless you feel like taking me on as a partner. You could do worse – we’ve worked together before. It’d be nice for Bren and Rita as well, they always used to hit it off.’

  ‘Well now, that’s something we could talk about,’ Hugo replied, affecting interest in a proposal which privately filled him with horror. ‘I’d have to discuss it with my fellow directors, of course. Why don’t you give us time to think it over? Come and see me again in a week or two.’

  Abruptly, Terry’s demeanour changed. He swung on his heel, grabbed the startled Hugo by his lapels and yanked him to his feet. ‘I’ll be back all right, you rat,’ he hissed. ‘You pay me every penny of what you owe me, or I’ll make sure all your posh friends know how Mister Hugo fucking Bayliss used to be one Charlie Foss whose name cropped up at a certain trial and who used to keep some very dodgy company. You might not be welcome at the golf club, Charlie boy, if that got around.’

  ‘No need to take that line, Terry old son.’ The notion flew into Hugo’s head that it might be a good idea to offer to hand over a few hundred right away. There was a good chance the police would find it and, like the other planted evidence, it would be very difficult to explain. There was plenty of cash in the house, courtesy of the late but unlamented Lorraine. ‘I was just going to say, if you’re short, I can let you have a bit to be going on with.’

  The offer appeared to take Terry by surprise. He released his grip and gave Hugo a shove in the direction of the house. ‘Good idea, why didn’t I think of it? Go on then – fetch!’

  Inwardly seething, but doing his best to retain some shreds of dignity, Hugo went indoors. Barbie started to follow, but he stopped her with a gesture, saying in his best, polite society manner, ‘You stay here and entertain our guest – perhaps he’d like a drink.’ The last thing he wanted was for Barbie to see him go to the bag of money and jewels hidden in the back of his wardrobe. He hurried to the bedroom, got out one of the bundles of fifties that Lorraine had taken from her unsuspecting husband’s safe and went back downstairs. Terry was standing at the edge of the pool. His hands were still in his pockets; evidently he had declined the offer of a drink. Barbie was a short distance away, staring out at the garden, her hands clasped in front of her, her face expressionless.

  ‘OK, here’s something on account,’ Hugo said, offering the notes with the air of a philanthropist distributing largesse. ‘It’ll take a week or two to arrange the rest, of course – a large sum like that.’ By which time you’ll have more pressing problems to worry about, he thought to himself.

  ‘Week or two be buggered.’ The semblance of good humour faded from Terry’s expression as he pocketed the money. ‘I want at least five grand by Wednesday or there’ll be trouble.’ He glanced down at the blue water a couple of feet away and added casually, ‘Think it over while you’re having your swim.’

  Before Hugo realised what was happening he was picked up as if he weighed no more than a child and dumped into the pool. As he struggled to the surface, Terry squatted down and said, in an almost conversational tone, ‘That was just a warning. Any funny business and I’ll cook you in your own sauna.’ He stood up, brushing his hands together in a symbolic gesture of triumph. Then he turned to Barbie, reached out a hand and fingered the gold necklace. ‘Very nice,’ he said with a nod of approval. ‘Rita’d like one of those. Guess I’ll soon be able to afford to get her one. It’s OK, Bren, I’ll see meself out. I think Charlie needs a hand.’ There was a blend of mockery and contempt in his smile as his eyes rested briefly on the figure floundering in the water before he turned and vanished into the house.

  Shocked and bemused by the events and revelations of the past few minutes, Barbie stared dumbly after his retreating back until a furious shout from behind her brought her back to reality. Hugo had reached the side of the pool and was heaving himself up the ladder. He stood grasping the rails, coughing and spluttering, looking down at his sodden, ruined suit with a mixture of fury and disbelief. Then his eyes focused on Barbie; he grabbed her by the arm, twisting it behind her, and propelled her towards the open patio door. ‘Inside, you!’ he rasped.

  ‘What are you doing? You’re hurting me,’ she pleaded, but his only response was to wrench her arm further backwards until she screamed.

  He marched her into the kitchen, spun her round and pinned her against a cupboard. ‘How did he know where to find me?’ he snarled. ‘Tell me that.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she stammered. Her throat was so constricted by fear of what was to come that she could hardly speak. Whether it was her fault or not, she was the one who was going to pay the penalty for the humiliation he had just suffered. ‘Honest, Charlie,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Hugo! How many times do I have to tell you… my name’s Hugo!’ He slapped her twice, hard, across the face. Bright lights flashed in front of her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry… Hugo,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Did you tell him?’ He took her by the shoulders and slammed her hard against the cupboard door. ‘Did you?’ Dumbly, she shook her head. ‘So it must have been your fucking big-mouthed Auntie Gwen. And there’s only one way she could have found out, and that’s through you, you two-faced bitch!’

  ‘But I never—’

  ‘You’re lying!’

  She raised her arms to protect her face from further blows. She could taste the blood flowing from her cut lips. ‘Please, Hugo, don’t—’

  ‘Shut up!’ He punched her in the ribs and she lurched sideways, gasping with the shock and pain of it. ‘You’ve been to see that old cow – admit it! I told you to keep away from her! A fine bloody mess you’ve landed me in now. Get out of my sight!’

  With a final box on the ears, he released her and she slithered, moaning, to the floor. Her head was swimming and there was blood in her eyes. On hands and knees she groped her way to the door and felt a fresh stab of agony as he kicked her in the buttocks. Reaching the hall, she clawed her way upstairs and collapsed onto the bed. Moments later she became aware that Hugo had followed her into the room and she rolled over and buried her face in a pillow to stifle her sobs, knowing from experience that they would only infuriate him further. She braced herself for further punishment, but mercifully it never came. She could hear him moving about, swearing, banging cupboard doors, running the taps in the bathroom. Then, without a word to her, he went out, slamming the door behind him.

  It was a long time before she dared to move. She had a vague recollection of hearing the front door close, of the sound of his car starting up. She struggl
ed to her feet, aware that the light outside was fading but with no clear idea of how long she had been lying on the bed or of the time it took her to stand up, stagger to the bathroom and switch on the light. She knew only that each movement sent stabs of pain to every part of her body. Slowly and unsteadily, supporting herself by grasping at furniture, the door handle, the towel rail, she reached the washbasin. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, more sobs welled up in her throat and tears of pain and misery trickled from her swollen eyes, down her inflamed cheeks and into her blood-encrusted mouth.

  A prolonged hot shower brought some relief to her body, but did little to assuage her despair. She dabbed the bruises with witch hazel, put on a robe and went downstairs. Hugo’s linen suit and underwear lay in a sodden heap on the kitchen floor – waiting, no doubt, for her to arrange for them to be laundered. In a spasm of fury she kicked them into a corner and trampled on them, hating them, hating him, wishing he was still inside them so that she could hurt him the way he had so many times hurt her. There was a litter of used plates and cutlery on the table, evidence that he had eaten some of the food she had prepared earlier. He had changed into dry clothes, had a meal and gone out without giving her a thought, probably in search of entertainment. She peered at the clock on the wall. It was almost nine, nearly two hours since Terry’s visit and its violent aftermath.

  She went to a cupboard, found a bottle of painkillers and swallowed three with a drink of water. She sat turning the bottle between her fingers, toying with the idea of taking the lot, of putting an end to it once and for all. Then she slammed it down on the table in a gesture of rage and defiance, thinking, Why should I kill myself for you, you bastard!

  The thought of food made her retch, but she brewed some coffee and drank two cups of it, black and scalding. There was only one thought in her mind: this time he had gone too far. It wasn’t the first beating he’d given her, not by a long way, but it was far and away the most savage. All these years she had stuck with him, fearing him, longing for freedom. She would have given anything at that moment to be able to pack her bags and walk out, go anywhere so long as she never set eyes on her husband again, go back to Auntie Gwen and the old crowd she missed so much. They would give her moral support, love, protection… but the one thing they couldn’t give her was the life of luxury that she was loath to forgo.