The Mask of Memory

by Victor Canning

  Good morning, my darling. I have gone for a walk. Won’t be long. Inside is a present for you with all, absolutely all, my love. M.

  Inside was a twice folded document on thick legal stationery. He sat up in bed and read it. It was a copy of her will, dated the previous Friday. It had been witnessed by her solicitor, Andrew Browning, and one of his clerks and left the whole of her estate, real and personal, to him. For a moment or two there was an angry urge to tear it up. It had come too quickly and without any effort on his part. It was what he would have wanted eventually, would have had to have. He swore softly to himself, fighting off the belittling impression he had known before of being forestalled by some outside Fate whose intrusion was an insult to him; a Fate which mistrusted his own powers to arrange his life.

  He flung the will to the bottom of the bed. But by the time he had washed and dressed his anger was gone, dispelled partly politically and partly naturally since there was a robust selfesteem in him which could not reject the tribute of first the gift of Margaret herself, a fine, good-looking woman, ardent and desirable and since their coming together looking years younger than her real age, and now – why after all waste time on his own injured pride? – so soon presenting him with all that she owned, putting herself and all that was hers into his hands. But Fate, he thought, the humour pleasing him, should really step back for a while and let him do a little work for himself. Gifts from the gods should be treated with caution. True gain was no more than a man could earn for himself by his own sweat and craft.

  Quint lay awake in bed that morning, waiting for his early tea to come and thinking about Bernard Tucker. The box file, he knew, had held all Sir Harry Parks’s papers. Once he had it Bernard would never have let it out of his sight or touch until he was convinced it was secure. He’d been dropped at Salisbury station for the London train. He saw him cross over, small case in hand, and catch a train to Bristol. A change there and then down to Exeter and the branch line to this place. Either his wife had met him or he had taken a taxi home. There was no importance in that. According to the inquest proceedings he and his wife had spent a quiet Saturday evening and then gone to bed. (Separate bedrooms and bathrooms. That must have been Bernard’s choice. For how many years? No matter to him. He had had Tania Maslick in London. And, late in the day, Margaret Tucker had found someone too.) He had worked all day on the Sunday in his study. Business papers and reports for his firm in London. (How could a woman have accepted all that without curiosity? No … not really difficult to imagine where no love existed; and Bernard had a way of choking you off with a look, a firm slam of the shutter in your face if you persisted. He had early learned never to take him to that point. So had she.) He had finished his work late in the afternoon and gone up to his bedroom. Would have taken the box file and his personal report with him and burned all his scrap notes and synopsis aids. What then? His own house. No more security risk than the minimal protection of his safe could cover. That would have been enough. But not enough for Bernard. The moment of confidence was the most dangerous one. He would have done something about that. He would have put the empty box file in the safe because even though empty it needed some shield against an alien eye. Naively Sir Harry had – how many years ago? – inked his initials, H.P., on the cover. (This he had kept from young Kerslake’s eyes, but not from Lassiter’s. But Lassiter was no threat He was old and wily enough to know now far more than he had been told. A cunning sod, too. Keeping the gold wrist watch bit for the right moment.) There was no doubt that he had hidden the papers somewhere. They weren’t with the stuff which Mrs Tucker had handed over to the solicitor, Browning. (God, that had been tricky to start with but the old boy had calmed down in the end – how often had he seen it – and eventually had been beguiled by the affair’s obvious importance. The old boy, too, he guessed, could have had the passing thought that help rendered in affairs of State might bring some discreet, low-grade award in some future Honours List. No stopping him after that, right up to the point of professional indiscretion.)

  Since Bernard had hidden the stuff, but left the empty box file in the safe, it must mean that he had chosen a place which would not take the box file but, by rolling or folding of the papers, would take them. He’d left the house only once on that Sunday, in the evening when he had gone for his fatal walk. He would never have taken them with him. The walk was unpremeditated. Brought on by Margaret Tucker and her personal affairs. It was an almost certain assumption that the papers were still hidden in the house somewhere. And that meant they had to turn the place over today. Just he and Lassiter with Kerslake sitting on the outer doorstep with a valid warrant to search in case Mrs Margaret Tucker turned up. Warboys had confirmed that procedure at two o’clock this morning and had promised to put the wheels in motion from his end. Warboys, as tart as a damson, on the phone. Was he already scenting failure, or hung-over now more openly with shock, from Bernard’s treachery, so distant, but freshly wounding? But he, himself, had no time for thought of failure. Not on this one. Because this was the one from which he had to launch himself upwards and onwards.

  All right. So they turned the place over and found nothing. What then? Plenty. The inquest report was concerned only with Bernard’s death and the preceding family quarrel. Margaret Tucker had been questioned – but only along one line. No one had hammered her to find out if Bernard had left the house at all – except after the quarrel. All the concentration had been on the quarrel and Bernard’s leaving the house for a walk. What time had he finished his work in the afternoon? What exactly had he done before going up to change for dinner? Nobody had cared about that. (But he did. If the house produced a blank, he would soon be screwing every single detail of every minute of that day from her.) There was a postbox at the top of the hill above Lopcommon. Bernard – such simple guile was so often effective – could have walked up and back in five minutes and posted the stuff off. To where? The office? Or even – God forbid – to that lout Grainger. (Though it would have been in the letter box when he searched it. Unless – and for his own sake, God forbid – being bulky, the bloody man had had it separately under the counter and had kept quiet about it.) Jesus – if it were as simple as that Warboys would crucify him…

  He reached for the bedside telephone and put in a call to London. He waited in mild agony until he got the duty officer at the office. He gave his instructions and told the man to let him know the outcome. He put the receiver back. Relief spreading its slow euphoria through the mind.

  His morning tea came and he sat, cradling the warm cup in his hands, the winter sunlight streaming through his window. Lassiter would have seen it. Maybe had already and was deliberately holding it back a while to drop it in front of him at some chosen moment, just as he had with the watch. Lassiter, the detail man. It would be a nice moment. He looked forward to it. But for all that Lassiter was the one man he, himself, would have chosen to be with him. His malice was unprompted by ambition. Yes, Lassiter was the man for him. If they found nothing in the house, he was the right type to have with him when he talked to the woman. If he had to frighten her, drive her to remember, Lassiter would be a gentle presence to hold and sustain her, catching the point of tears and confusion and offering the easy balm. Though, God knows, she might really be well able to look after herself. Off somewhere now – but soon to be located – with some damn ne’er-do-well to whom already she had willed everything she owned. Old Browning had offered that privately, diffidently breaching a professional code because, ‘… since this matter is, so important it might have some … well, I just felt that in the circumstances …’ Talking in suspended phrases, inchoate almost, because at the back of his own mind he was not sure what there was to offer or whether he really had anything to offer at all. He was just the sort of bloody fool who really might have something but never think of producing it.

  There was a knock on the door and Lassiter came in, wearing dressing-gown and pyjamas, a cigarette in his mouth, and his eyes a little fogged with the wh
isky which he had drunk in his room before going to bed.

  He said, ‘A small fear that surfaced amongst my waking dreams.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Bernard could have slipped out some time on Sunday and posted all the stuff off. Not to the office, we know. But the documents being bulky, old Grainger could have been holding them under the counter.’

  Quint nodded, still-faced, and said, ‘Yes, I know. It occurred to me late last night.’ He nodded at the telephone. ‘They’re going to turn the place over first thing this morning. If the stuff’s there we can go home. If not – we’ve got to take the house apart.’

  ‘Save us from that.’ Crossing to the window, staring out at the mud banks of the river, Lassiter said, ‘They should do his flat, too. Seeing the way posts are now a letter can take bloody days. Though – even if we can’t ignore it – I don’t think Bernard would have done it that way. He was due to hand over on Tuesday to Warboys.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I mentioned the flat as well. But I agree with you, I don’t think Bernard would have used the post.’

  Chapter Eleven

  At half-past nine the news came through from London that there had been nothing in Grainger’s shop, and nothing at Commander Tucker’s flat. Kerslake arrived with a warrant to enter and search Lopcommon Barton.

  They went out to the house, but on the way made a detour to Dougall’s cottage. It was still empty.

  ‘They’re off,’ said Lassiter, ‘on a bicycle made for two.’

  Kerslake smiled to himself. He could see that Quint was not amused.

  When they reached the house Kerslake was told to stay outside in the car. They wanted no interruption from tradesmen, or any other visitors. He would make his own excuses for his presence there according to the nature of the caller. It was a cold morning with a thin hoar rime lying in the shadowed pockets of the combe side. He warmed himself every so often by taking a walk up the drive and back through the garden and wishing he could be inside to see the way they went about their work. There would be no wrecking, no upturned drawer contents on the floors … none of the desecrating mess which so many house-breakers left and which he had seen so often. When they left a room he knew that it would look exactly as it had been when they had entered. He had seen people weep at the sight of their homes after a thief had worked it, weep not for what they had lost but from shock at the violation, the rude contamination of strange, irreverent hands. There would be nothing of that from these two.

  Inside the house Lassiter and Quint took separate rooms. Two in a room meant that something might be missed between them. Quint took Bernard’s bedroom and bathroom suite, and Lassiter took Mrs Tucker’s, He went, unhurried, through, the routines of search, thoroughly, efficiently, following the precise procedures acquired in the hard training of his first days with the Department and sharpened by years of practical experience. But now, for once, the searching had a paradoxical element because he searched where Bernard Tucker could have hidden, and Bernard knew all the tricks. It was almost like one of the original set exercises in searching. If the stuff were in this room and he missed it, then from somewhere Bernard would be giving him a black mark.

  There was one drawer in Mrs Tucker’s bureau which was locked. He got Bernard’s bunch of keys from Quint. There was no surprise in him when one of them opened the drawer. Nothing in this house would be closed to Bernard. There was a leather-bound diary and two cheap paperback books in the drawer. He flipped through the two books to see if there was anything loose between the pages. There was nothing. On the cover of one was a girl, immodestly dressed, he thought, snuggling up to a Highland warrior on top of a mountain. He sat down and began to read through the diary. If there were to be a clue to Bernard’s hiding place it would only come from some source which Bernard would never have considered. Wives, more so when love was gone, had sharp eyes and scored little triumphs for themselves to ease their bitterness or frustration; and why not, the neglected little darlings?

  He read the diary right through to the last entry which was some weeks old. There was no mention of Maxie Dougall. He took the diary through to Quint and tossed it on Bernard’s bed.

  ‘When you want a break, I think you ought to read through this. There’s a point in it which may be worth considering. Is it all right if Kerslake comes into the house for coffee? It’s freezing out there.’

  Quint nodded and picked up the diary.

  Down in the kitchen Lassiter said to Kerslake, ‘See if you can rustle up some coffee. If there’s no tinned milk – pop down to the village for some. You should buy yourself a book to read, too. This is going to be a long job.’ He fished in his wallet and took out some notes. ‘And a bottle of whisky. There’s no reason why the lady of the house should have to treat us as guests.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t go formal. We’re human – even Mr Quint.’

  Kerslake grinned.

  Lassiter went back to the bedroom and heard Kerslake’s car drive off. He smiled to himself. There was tinned milk in the house – he’d seen it the day before – but Kerslake knew his priorities. Kerslake was anxious to please, to learn, and Kerslake – it happened to so many – would be dreaming and hoping and wondering how you got your toe in the door of the Department. He could read him like a book because it was what had happened to himself years and years ago when he had been with the Royal Corps of Military Police, not even Army Intelligence. Kerslake should kill his dreams: The work was interesting but dirty. He wondered how long it would be before Kerslake could no longer contain some question about William Ankers. They had questioned him about the man and then left him high and dry. That was hard on a type like Kerslake.

  Half an hour later they had coffee in the kitchen. Quint drank his quickly and went into Bernard’s study to work there. Lassiter laced his coffee with a splash of whisky. Five minutes later Kerslake was back in the car with the radio turned down softly and Lassiter had taken the step-ladder from the scullery and gone into the roof loft through the hatch on the top landing. He had light from a couple of strip tubes on the roof beams, operated by a switch on the landing. The place was empty except for two water tanks. The floor had been covered with a four-inch layer of insulating material, loose grey granulated stuff like dirty snow. He examined it for signs of disturbance and saw none. He lifted the covers of the water tanks and checked that there was nothing hidden inside. Then he groaned, went down on his hands and knees and began to sift and scrape through the loose floor covering.

  They took three-quarters of an hour off for a bar-counter lunch at the pub in Lopcommon and then went back to work. They finished the house and then the garden and its sheds and the garage. Kerslake froze in the car and became mind-sogged with the mush and music from the radio. He was twice called in to make tea. The second time he saw that the level of whisky had dropped considerably in Lassiter’s bottle. He had a feeling, though he did not know why, unless it came intuitively from something in the man’s manner, that Lassiter was searching without any real hope of finding whatever it was that they were looking for.

  He was right. Lassiter and Quint had changed their search pattern. Each now was taking the rooms and areas that the other had previously worked. Each knew that the other would find nothing, but the training method had to be followed. Lassiter knew that if Bernard had hidden his stuff in this house its discovery had to come with help from Bernard. Hide and seek. You’re cold. You’re hot. By themselves in this house – Bernard watching them sardonically from above – they would never get anywhere. Slowly an eagerness built up in him to meet Mrs Margaret Tucker. What they wanted was her picture of Bernard – the stranger to them. It would be from this woman that they would get their answer if only in the obliquest terms.

  They had walked up over the hill at the back of the farm and across a long stretch of moor to the headwaters of a small stream which they had followed downwards into a narrow valley clothed with ash growths and stunted oaks, the stream growing to a boulder-bro
ken torrent. There was a small hamlet where the stream met the sea. Here they had lunch of bread and cheese at an inn, and then turned northwards to walk the coast back to the beach below their farm. The wind was cold and raw against their faces.

  The path was narrow and Maxie walked ahead of her. She was glad of this for, although they could not talk to one another so freely, she liked to see him there, moving easily over the rough ground. The sight of him was company enough. Years ago … years and years ago she and Bernard had walked together while they were still in Scotland. But even then it had never been like this.

  She would never again, she thought, live at Lopcommon. Maxie would never go there and she hated the place. It was amazing how you could read one man and not another. That surely came – the sureness of understanding without words, a look or a touch enough – from love, from that part of love which hung above, beyond the body, an essence which needed only passion to create it and then rose free to live its own life. This morning she had come back from her early walk, wondering what he would say about the will, a little fearful that she had rushed things out of a love which impelled her to pledge not only herself but everything she had. She had known the moment she walked into the room that he was with her and understanding her.

  He had held her, running the fiat of his hand under her hair on the nape of her neck, pressing her face against him and had said, ‘Don’t be worried. I know how you feel. A man’s pride touched wrong can make him curl up like a hedgehog, all spikes to the world. But not with me, girl. You gave me everything I’ll ever want when you first came to me in the cottage. Aye, you could tear that piece of paper up now, walk out on me, and you’d still leave me with all the riches a man could ask for in this world.’ And then he had held her away from him and with that grin, the grin of a small boy in the orphanage crocodile, had gone on, ‘But you disappointed me and for that you must be punished. What man wants to wake in the morning wanting his woman and find her gone? For that you have to make proper amends…’