Seeing Red

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Seeing Red Page 16

by Roger Ormerod


  ‘But that wasn’t quite true, was it?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You said he came back in an hour. That’s a bit presumptuous of him, isn’t it! That really is a bit much, assuming you’d do it again, and not even looking in and saying, “Sorry Lynne,” or anything.’

  ‘He might’ve done that,’ she murmured, ‘and I didn’t hear.’

  ‘That’s possible of course. But if I’d been you, I’d have been very annoyed, and I’d have bounced out and driven away.’

  ‘I was upset.’

  ‘And bounced out?’

  ‘Well, if you must know,’ she said angrily, ‘I just walked out of my side door, banged off the light, and sat in the car crying for a bit.’ She was looking at me with pitiful defiance.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said with sympathy. ‘And then you changed your mind?’

  Her face puckered. ‘The damn car wouldn’t start. I’d over-choked it or something. So I sat and cursed, and then came back in and did the typing. So...you see...’ Her grimace was almost mischievous. ‘If he’d shouted he was sorry, that’s why I didn’t hear him.’

  ‘The other red?’

  ‘No point, is there? I’ll do a green.’

  ‘But the snag is,’ I said, ‘that if he’d looked in to apologise he’d have seen your office dark through that little window, and if it wasn’t during the time you were trying to start the car it would be quiet, and he’d assume you’d gone home.’

  She threw one of the plaques across the lab. I retrieved it. It was one of the reds.

  ‘You trapped me into that,’ she stormed.

  ‘Into what? Into admitting he might’ve thought you’d gone home?’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  It was not, I’ll admit. I’d had years of practice, and I’d been aiming for circumstances I’d deduced had to be there.

  ‘Try the green,’ I suggested.

  ‘Do it yourself.’

  ‘Can I be trusted with your lovely Lovibond?’

  ‘Oh…you make me mad.’

  As she bent her eye to the eyepiece again, I said: ‘But why should you be mad? All you’ve told me is that he could’ve thought you’d gone home. Is that so terrible?’

  ‘This one’s different. It’s a metallic colour.’

  ‘Though of course,’ I conceded, pretending to give it thought, ‘there’d have been no reason for him to come back an hour later, if he believed you’d gone home.’

  But she was not to be drawn. ‘Munsell didn’t allow for metallic colours,’ she explained. ‘This was eighty years ago that he did all his work. Perhaps they didn’t have metallic colours then.’

  ‘Perhaps the car industry invented them,’ I agreed. ‘Like they invented bumpers.’ But she’d withdrawn into a deliberately stubborn mood. ‘Do your best with it, there’s a good girl.’

  She consulted her notebook again. ‘Then I’d classify it as 7G 4/5.’

  ‘Try another.’

  She sighed dramatically, and did it. ‘It’s the same.’

  ‘Then…the next.’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Please.’

  She placed the viewing head on the third green. This time she was longer. Frowning, she consulted her notebook. ‘It’s the same metallic green,’ she said, ‘but it’s higher on the value scale. Say 7G 6/5.’

  ‘Which means — to me?’

  ‘It’s a fraction lighter.’

  ‘Try the other two, then.’

  They came out at 7G 6/5 as well.

  She sat, one leg half off the stool, her frown so intense it shadowed her eyes. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered.

  ‘A poor match, perhaps. Here, try this.’

  I’d thought of a distraction. There was no harm now in demonstrating to her a theory I’d now discarded. I made a joke of it, because she was deeply shaken. She was watching me agitate my spray can again. I snapped off the cap and sprayed the wall behind her, assuming she could reach it with the viewing head. As I watched, it dried, and seemed to disappear, just as in the garage. At my obvious expression of dismay she gave a choked little laugh.

  ‘Silly,’ she cried. ‘We sprayed the wall 5G 5/5. It’s not much different.’

  ‘Good Lord, is that how the scientific mind works? Most people would paint their woodwork in apple green, but you people do it in 5G 5/5. You walk into the paint shop and say: “I want a gallon of 5G 5/5, please.” How amazing.’

  She sighed. Suddenly she’d had enough of it, and looked exhausted. With both hands she swept back the hair that had fallen forward when she crouched over the eyepiece. ‘It was one of his experiments, oh, two years ago. The effect of colour on the environment. Psychological.’

  She gestured to a row of cupboards along the end of the lab, and I walked over and opened the doors. There were hundreds of screw-top jars of coloured pigments in powder form, each one labelled with its basic Munsell rating. All began with the number five, followed by one of the ten basic codes, R, YR, Y, GY, and so on, and then a variation of the theme of the series 2/2 to 9/12.

  ‘We could mix anything we liked from that. He bought gallons of base and thinners — there’s still a lot of cans left — and he came up with some beauties. Once or twice it nearly drove us crazy. Me crazy, rather. It didn’t worry Gledwyn, of course. This on the wall now is the last one we tried. Then he lost interest.’ She sighed. ‘We went on to something else.’

  It seemed to me that I now had confirmation of what I’d theorised. ‘I really am grateful,’ I told her.

  ‘But what does it mean?’ She was off the stool now, plucking at my sleeve.

  ‘I was checking on the Escort’s colours. I’m afraid it means it was re-sprayed, Lynne.’

  ‘But we knew that. It was green, and it was re-sprayed red.’

  ‘I didn’t quite mean that. It shows — what you’ve told me — that the one wing, the nearside front, was re-sprayed green again. Recently.’

  She leaned back against the bench. All colour had drained from her face. She tried to smile, probably in contempt and dismissal, but it didn’t come off. ‘How can you possibly know that, from what I’ve said?’

  ‘The fact that you got readings for two slightly different greens. The light green bits are from the original and the darker green from a recent re-spray, just a fraction wrong.’

  I was walking towards her office, forcing her to tag along with me. I wanted her to draw the obvious conclusion. I was not sure I could handle her distress, so I hoped she’d do it later.

  But she saw it straight away, plunking down on her office chair, her eyes staring and her clenched fists on her knees.

  ‘You’re telling me that the Escort was the car that killed Carla!’ she said, choking on the idea.

  ‘It does seem like it. Particularly as there’re signs on the wreck that repair work’s been done on that wing. Probably a headlamp shell was put in, and then the wing was repaired and re-sprayed.’ I sighed. ‘Green,’ I added, ‘but just a fraction wrong.’

  She buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh dear God,’ she whispered.

  All I could think of was tea. I’m not much use with distressed females. ‘I’ll put the kettle on…’

  She was at once on her feet, all flame and fury. ‘And all you can think about is bloody tea!’ she shouted.

  Then she slammed out of her side door, and for a few moments I thought she’d over-choked her car again, but it spluttered and caught and she revved it high, scraping into reverse and backing out as though I was chasing her. Or something else was.

  Worried, I went and tossed the spray-can into my car, and found them in the long sitting room. More drama. Phil had phoned, and unfortunately Evan had answered it. There’d been a coolness, even when Angie took over from him, and though there was now silence in the room, apart from Mahler on low volume, it was the silence of inward strife. Angie was flipping through a magazine, Evan standing staring out of the window.
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  Still on the same theme, I said: ‘Anybody ready for a spot of tea?’

  Evan pounced on the idea eagerly, as though it triggered something. ‘Is it that time? I really ought to be off.’

  Angie raised her head. ‘Should you, Evan? If you say so.’

  And he left, with a weak smile for me. I wondered, later, what Phil had said to him.

  It turned out to be one of those evenings. I could barely sit still, with my mind churning ideas around — dying to express them to somebody, and not daring — and trying not to allow Angie to realise. I caught her eyes on me from time to time, worry in them. She had the brooding uncertainty of a young lady poised between decisions, barely restraining herself from dashing out and across to the Rees farm, and probably, thereby, burning a few bridges.

  At around eight, Paul phoned. He’d obviously been reconsidering his situation, having heard that the chair of Philosophy had gone to a Dr Wright of Oxford, and invited himself plus Rena for a visit.

  ‘They’re coming tomorrow evening,’ declared Angie, in a tone of despair and desperation.

  ‘He can’t eat you.’

  But it worried her for too long, and I couldn’t shake her out of it. She went up to her room early and distracted herself by trying on her new coat. Women’s therapy. I was half asleep on the settee when she came tripping down. ‘Trala! What d’you think?’

  As though it mattered what I thought! I made admiring noises, but didn’t give her the truth. However she came, that was fine with me. But perhaps I stared. It seemed to please her, anyway, and off she went to take it off.

  Green. I sat, eyes out of focus. The thought gradually crystallised, and I dashed out into the hall and dialled Lynne’s number.

  It rang a dozen times before she picked it up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Harry Kyle. I wanted to ask you something unpleasant. I’m sorry.’

  Her voice was thin and toneless. ‘Then ask it, and get it over.’

  ‘On the night Carla died, Lynne, what colour coat or costume or whatever was she

  wearing?’

  I could hear her breathing. It was irregular.

  ‘Lynne?’

  ‘It was...it was green.’

  The last word faded as she removed the phone from her ear. I thought she was sobbing.

  ‘Lynne, Lynne,’ I called.

  At last she came back, her voice empty. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Are you alone?’ I asked, worried for her.

  ‘I can’t say any more.’

  ‘Are you alone?’ I repeated intensely, but the phone was already buzzing in my ear.

  I replaced it, got the dialling tone again, and dialled Phil’s flat. Fortunately, he was home.

  ‘I’ve got to see you,’ I said.

  ‘Harry...if you only knew...’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m up to my neck...’

  ‘It’s a bloody Sunday,’ I snapped impatiently. ‘You’re entitled to a break, so give yourself one.’

  But all the same he couldn’t make it until the evening. We arranged to meet in the pub on the square in Llanmawr, the Mitre. I’d impressed him with the importance of it, but I was annoyed with him by the time I hung up. He wanted to get his priorities right, I thought.

  I’d got it all, the full story, and I didn’t like one word of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday, for me, was very difficult, because I didn’t want Angie to know what I was thinking. So I had to look busy, and intent on momentous discovery.

  The day was fine, and over breakfast she said she’d take out the gelding for an hour. We hadn’t thought of looking in the hall, there being no post delivery, but when I wandered through, wondering whether to drive down to town for a paper, there it was.

  There was no stamp and no postmark, the envelope having been delivered by hand in the night, but all the same the identical name and address was printed on. It was almost as though the intention had been to post it, but urgency had dictated an earlier hand delivery.

  ‘We’ve got another,’ I called out cheerfully, walking back into the kitchen.

  This sort of thing loses its effect from sheer repetition. If you want to make an impact with threats you have to do something about it, or at least show a potential. A rain of threats is futile.

  IF YOU DO NOT LEAVE AT ONCE

  IT WILL BE THE END FOR BOTH OF

  YOU.

  This time he’d avoided the use of death or die in any form. It was to be our end. It was pathetic. Angie even managed a weak little laugh. I said: ‘What about this riding you mentioned?’ and managed to sound quite cheerful.

  I watched for a while as she cantered round the paddock, then Evan rode in from the field beyond on a big black stallion and made mock jeering sounds which caused Angie to meet the challenge. With wild shouts they rode off into the valley. I’ve never been on a horse.

  All the same, not displeased with the distraction for her, I drove down for my Sunday paper, read it until Angie returned to cook a rather heavy meal, then had a little doze. She didn’t seem surprised that I wasn’t out detecting. Maybe she assumed detectives had a Sunday break like other people, during which their brains grew numb.

  Mine certainly must have been. The facts had been handed to me, and I’d missed out on the important one. Evan’s arrival awoke me. Everything was normal between them, judging by the cheerfulness in his voice. It was just turning dark, and with a start I recalled that I was going to meet Phil. I’d make a secret of it. I hadn’t even told Angie. Especially Angie.

  But there was still time. I said I’d be going down for a drink, and nobody queried it, so I wandered out into the yard on the way to my car. I threw up the door and realised that Evan was standing at my shoulder.

  ‘A word?’ he asked.

  I refrained from looking at my watch. We walked through the garage and into the lab. ‘Somebody’s left the Lovibond on,’ he said. I switched it off quickly. It was smelling hot. ‘What’s the matter with Angie, Mr Kyle?’ he asked, taking it head on.

  ‘Hasn’t she told you?’

  ‘A domestic thing — I didn’t like to pry.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ He was a stolid non-pryer. ‘I think we’ll soon get it sorted out,’ I said, sounding confident.

  ‘If you think it’d help...’ He shook his head. His mouth was firm. ‘If you’d advise me...I could easily go back to my work.’ He didn’t know how to get to it. ‘Mr Kyle,’ he tried, ‘was she like this before I came here?’

  It had cost him a lot, and he blushed with the effort.

  ‘Like what?’ I asked carefully.

  ‘You know. She was always highly-strung, was Angie. Always living on the peak of some mood or other. But now — touch her and she flinches, and her temper’s showing at a word. I don’t understand. She laughs at things that would usually hurt her, and sometimes a smile nearly has her in tears. She’s...unbalanced. Is it me? What am I doing wrong?’

  All this he said with his head turned away. I didn’t know what to say to him. ‘It’s something she can’t handle herself.’

  ‘Then I can help?’ he asked, turning quickly.

  ‘By being around, perhaps.’ I couldn’t just send him away, he was so earnest.

  ‘You’ll tell me what I can do — any time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He seemed to relax a little. It had all been prepared and he was glad to have got it out.

  ‘Who’s been using the Lovibond?’ he asked, touching it to test its warmth. It’d been on all night.

  ‘That was Lynne. Something I asked her to check.’

  ‘It’s a great pity.’ He smiled at me. ‘Gledwyn was really a splendid scientist, but you’d have thought he’d have lashed out on a spectrophotometer. A man in his line. Colour.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘These two instruments are colorimeters. They depend entirely on the colour judgment of the user. I mean, Lynne could be good — m
ost women have perfect colour vision. But for truly scientific work he should’ve used a second operator to check the results. A top-class spectrophotometer would have covered it. He could even have used that himself. But with these he was absolutely dependent on his assistant. A colorimeter’s no earthly use to somebody who’s colour blind, as he was.’

  And I’d missed it. I’d watched Lynne using her excellent colour vision, and I’d still missed it. I’m afraid I was short with him. I pushed past him. ‘Excuse me.’

  Then I ran past the car and across the yard, and galloped through the house into the hall. I dialled Lynne’s number. When I looked round, Evan was watching me from a far doorway.

  She answered. I told her who it was.

  ‘What is it now?’ she asked in a dead voice.

  ‘You let me go on believing it,’ I said severely. ‘You let me show you why I thought the Escort killed your friend.’

  Her uneven breathing was in my ear. She was not interrupting.

  ‘And you knew what I was getting at. Lynne, are you listening? You knew I was assuming he could make up a match for any colour. Himself.’

  She gasped: ‘I don’t want to hear. Why can’t you leave me alone!’

  ‘Don’t hang up.’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘No!’ she almost screamed. ‘I’m not going to talk to you. Not ever...’

  I controlled my voice. Calm, I told myself. Calm and confident. ‘Now you know I’m not going to shout at you. It’ll take me a quarter of an hour to get there. Will you wait for me?’

  ‘No!’ she shouted.

  ‘Please! It’s so important.’

  ‘It’s no good.’ It was a whimper now. ‘I can’t tell you—’

  The line went dead. I stared at the wall.

  Evan said: ‘What is it?’

  I caught his elbow. ‘You can help me. Keep quiet about this. I’ve got to go over and speak to Lynne, but I’m supposed to be meeting somebody — the pub at the far end of the square.’

  ‘The Mitre?’

  ‘That’s the place. A tall, fair-haired chap. Go there and tell him I’ll be along. Don’t let him get away and don’t let him come up here. You’ll do that?’

 

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