‘I were egged on. There were a whole crowd of us.’
‘You held the knife.’
‘So? Everybody deserves a second chance.’
It wasn’t a whine, just a simple statement of fact. Barnaby wondered if the pensioner might have liked a second chance. Or the guy left lying in the gutter with a punctured lung. He said, ‘If you got what you deserved, Jackson, the world might be a sweeter smelling place.’
Downstairs the flat door opened and closed. Barnaby, watching Terry Jackson, marvelled at what happened next. A strong and heartless man was transformed, before his very eyes, into a persecuted, hunted creature driven by cruel fate to the very end of its despairing tether. All the steel dissolved from his muscular frame which had now become so soft and boneless it could no longer support him. His legs buckled. He crouched on the floor hugging his knees to his chest, hiding his face.
‘What on earth is happening here, Jax?’
The boy (yes, boy, for so he had become) slowly lifted his head and gazed with great agitation at the Reverend Lawrence. Both policemen stared in disbelief at the pale and fearful countenance, the troubled eyes now swimming with moisture, the shaking, tremulous mouth.
‘They just pushed in and started on me, Lionel. I ain’t done nothing.’
‘I know that, Jax. It’s all right.’
‘I promised you I’d never let you down.’
Lionel Lawrence turned and faced Barnaby. He looked severe and disappointed, giving the impression that if anyone had let him down it was Her Majesty’s Police Inspectorate.
‘Why are you persecuting this young man?’
‘There’s no question of persecution, sir. We are simply pursuing our inquiries into the death of Mr Leathers.’
‘I’d’ve thought,’ suggested Sergeant Troy, ‘you’d want that thoroughly gone into. Him being your employee, so to speak.’
‘This is my property. If you need to speak to Jax again, you call at the Rectory first. I shall come over here with you. There’ll be no more bullying. He has that right.’
‘Actually, he doesn’t.’ Barnaby nodded angrily to his sergeant who put away his notebook and got up to leave. The chief inspector followed, glancing back just once.
Lionel Lawrence was bending over, helping Jackson to his feet. Jackson was clinging to the older man’s arm for support. His tear-stained face glowed with pious gratitude as if he had received a blessing.
Barnaby, nauseated, slammed the door and hurried down the stairs.
‘Gay as a bent banana, that old geezer.’ Sergeant Troy strode towards the car, giving vent to his feelings by kicking furiously at the gravel.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What, then? What’s he doing it for?’
What was Lionel Lawrence doing it for? Barnaby let the question occupy his mind as Troy churned up the drive and zoomed into the main road.
Unlike many of his colleagues, the chief inspector did not automatically lump all ‘do-gooders’ together and despise the lot. He had met very many, both professional and amateur, during his long career as a policeman and grown to recognise the different types and the many different angles from which they approached the business. There were always quite a few who denied they had any angle at all. And many more who were extremely muddled as to what their angle actually was.
Many were in it for the power it gave them, the opportunity to forge relationships where they would always be in charge. These were the sort of people whose personality and talents made it highly unlikely that, in the normal run of things, they would ever have authority over anything more charismatic than the office cat. With them, compassion was merely a mask for condescension.
This same rationale applied to the socially inept. Usually without stable, happy relationships in their own lives, these emotional inadequates would start off with the huge advantage of being able to call the psychological shots. Frequently for the first time in their lives someone needed them.
Then there were those romantically drawn to what they saw as the glamour of violence. Never, in reality, having been on the receiving end, these people sometimes excitedly took up prison visiting. With a warder always close by they could spend quality time with what they believed would be some of the wildest and most dangerous specimens of humanity. Barnaby had once had dealings with a Quaker visitor, a pacifist, who preferred to befriend only murderers. When this paradox was drawn to his attention, he saw nothing odd in it at all.
One could add to this the early retired with woolly, undirected feelings of altruism and the small number of comfortably off who still had a social conscience. Then one was left with the few, the very few remarkable human beings who, without a single string attached, simply loved their fellow man. Barnaby had met many who saw themselves in this role. In actual fact, in over thirty years, he had come across two.
So, where did that leave Lionel Lawrence? The chief inspector decided to find out more about the man. For instance, did the Lawrences have children? If the answer was no, this might be the reason he so consistently offered sanctuary to the young. (Didn’t someone mention a girl who had run away?) Had he always been in the Church? Was this his first marriage? If so, how did he live before it took place? And did this warm bath of unreasoned sentiment he was presently wallowing in ever splash over to console the plain, the middle-aged or elderly of either sex? And if not, why not?
The DCI’s attention was rudely catapulted back to the present when Sergeant Troy honked furiously and jerked his head towards a man with a red setter. Both were patiently waiting to cross the road and did so with understandable speed while Troy, still seething at the repulsive tableau he had just witnessed, violently revved the engine.
As the policemen left the village, they passed Evadne Pleat’s Morris Minor coupé just turning into Tall Trees Lane. She trundled inch by inch down the narrow space, crushing thistles and nettles and getting various sticky bits and assorted fungi attached to the wheels. She tried not to think about reversing back up.
Many would think it the height of foolishness to have driven down in the first place but Evadne had a precious cargo that could not safely be otherwise transported. Hetty Leathers and Candy were in the back. Hetty held the dog in her arms. She could not bear the thought of shutting her away in a box or basket after what she had suffered. And carrying her down the lane, however carefully, would still involve the risk of stumbling, maybe even falling, and dropping her precious burden.
Evadne parked directly outside the cottage and Hetty passed over the key. When the front door was unlocked she climbed out very, very carefully.
Both women stood inside the kitchen smiling at each other. Hetty was reluctant to let go of the dog and eventually sat down by the Rayburn with Candy on her lap while Evadne made them all some tea.
‘Do you think she’ll be able to get in and out of her basket?’
‘Not really,’ replied Evadne. ‘I think it will be easier to just put a cushion on the floor.’
They both studied the dog who lay awkwardly on her back gazing up at Hetty. Her back leg was in plaster and stuck straight up in the air. The wound on her head and the tattered ear had been extensively stitched and she wore a deep, stiff white collar to stop her scratching. Her ribs were tightly bound with an elastic bandage. Hetty thought she looked quite comical, in a quaint, dog Toby sort of way. Hetty could afford that sort of frivolous observation now that she knew Candy would survive.
‘Is . . . um . . .’ Evadne lowered her nose into a canister celebrating the Queen and Prince Philip’s Silver Wedding. It held some very black, powerfully pungent dusty stuff. She sniffed daintily, recoiling in disbelief. ‘Is this . . .?’
‘That’s it,’ said Hetty cheerfully. ‘One each and one for the pot.’
‘Right ho.’ Evadne added boiling water, unhooked two jolly Tower of London mugs from a pine stand and looked around for a strainer.
‘You have to wait for it to brew, Evadne. At least five minutes.’
‘This
will be fine for me.’
Evadne poured half a mug for herself, waited until Hetty gave the nod then poured her friend’s drink. Inky black with a lot of milk and two large sugars.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’
‘Beautiful.’ Hetty took a long swig. ‘Tea you could trot a mouse on, as my dad used to say.’
Evadne had a happy moment picturing the mouse skating back and forth across the surface of Hetty’s drink, its arms folded neatly behind its back, then sat down and attempted to stroke Candy. But so little of the dog was exposed she had to settle for gently patting her nose.
‘Will you be all right now?’ Evadne meant both of them, which Hetty immediately understood.
‘We will. You’ve been so kind.’
‘Nonsense.’ Evadne gruffly dismissed the idea of being kind as genuinely kind people always do. ‘Well, I’d better get back to my family.’
Hetty decided to walk Evadne to the gate. But she was no sooner out of Candy’s sight than the dog started to softly howl. Awful, whimpering cries that smote both women to the heart. Hetty turned back.
‘She’s frightened,’ said Evadne. ‘You won’t be able to leave her alone for a while. Will you be able to manage?’
‘Yes. Pauline can help with the shopping.’
‘I’ll call round tomorrow.’
But the door was already closing. Evadne regarded her Morris coupé uncertainly. It seemed as fastly stuck between hedge and hedge as a cork in a bottle. She could not imagine how on earth she ever drove down there and plainly it was out of the question for her to reverse back up. Help was needed.
She fought her way, pushing and struggling, past the car, then strode off towards the village street picking goosegrass off her pale green linen Oxford bags. She thought of calling in at the Red Lion. They were a jolly crew there. Very friendly, always letting fly some merry banter as she strode by with the Pekes.
On the other hand there might be a fair bit of chat about who was or wasn’t safe to drive. Who could spare the time. And who would be perfect if only he wasn’t over Aylesbury way visiting his mother. In other words, delay.
Evadne was anxious to get the matter sorted so she could return home and prepare the Pekes’ lunch. Mazeppa liked her warm jelly starter out of the marrow bone and onto a nice bit of fresh toast by midday or her digestion, always delicate, became positively flimsy.
And then Evadne thought of Valentine Fainlight. Of how kind he had been when he had come across Hetty stumbling around with her injured burden. He would help. In fact he would probably be glad to have the opportunity to call at the bungalow and see how Candy was getting along.
Valentine was only pretending to work. He had been messing about - cleaning brushes, half sketching illustrations for scenes as yet unwritten that would in all likelihood remain so - all morning. And when the mysterious echo of door chimes shivered around the glass walls, his brain was so crammed with erotic images that he heard nothing. Electrically charged sights and sounds and sensations and smells from the previous night ran constantly over and through his mind.
Mingled with these thrilling reflections were memories of the first time Jax had let him into the flat. This had been nearly four months ago. Until that evening they had barely spoken and then only to exchange the banal courtesies of strangers. But they had also exchanged looks which had left Valentine, entranced by the man’s beauty, in an agony of calculation as to when and where and how it might happen.
When it did, when the blue door was finally left open, he had set one foot carefully on the staircase bearing with him the anticipation of weeks, believing yet not quite believing, half expecting still that the interior door would be locked.
It wasn’t. He had entered the room and stood, hesitant and trembling with emotion, on the threshold. He called quietly ‘Hello?’ and sensed a movement behind him. A strong smooth arm slid across his chest, gripping him tight, pulling him backwards. Warm lips burned the back of his neck, a tongue outlined his ear then slid, flickering like a snake’s, deeply inside. Very slowly his shirt was pulled free and unbuttoned.
Valentine, suddenly and blindingly happy, tried to turn round. To embrace the other’s firm sweating flesh, to speak, but the naked arm tightened and he could not move. No longer wished to move.
Jax started to whisper, pouring a stream of filth into his captive’s ear, then moved savagely and suddenly inside him. Valentine, gasping and sobbing for breath, descended into a nightmare of excitement and pain.
Why had he thought there might be kindness? Watching Jax wander over to the bathroom, listening to the shower running, slowly putting on his own clothes, Valentine asked the question then despised himself for a weakling. What had he expected? It had been a thrilling experience, joy and alarm in equal proportions - anyone up for casual sex should be so lucky.
Jax came out wearing a robe and a conqueror’s smile. He was tired and had to rest now so Val must excuse him. Valentine, concealing his disappointment that post-coital ciggies were not on the menu, hesitated. He had brought money even while hoping it would prove to be unnecessary. Not because he was mean but because he was looking for something money could not buy. But he had to be sure he would be welcome again.
‘I wonder . . .’ He opened his jacket. The outline of the well-filled wallet in the inside breast pocket was plain to see. ‘That is . . .’
‘Very good of you, Val.’
‘I wouldn’t wish.’
‘I’ll be honest. Money’s too tight to mention at the moment.’
‘Perhaps I can.’
‘The Giro goes nowhere.’
Val simply removed all the notes from the wallet and placed them carefully on the coffee table. Jax, calm and relaxed, did not even glance their way. And though he said goodnight, he did not say thank you.
After barely twenty-four hours, Val had been desperate to get into the garage flat again. And so it had continued.
Valentine had never thought of himself as masochistic. Had never sought or enjoyed pain. But he soon recognised, with a little thrill of horror, that this man could do anything to him, anything at all, and he would not resist. Would even welcome whatever situation developed between them.
Finally the sound of the bell penetrated this dense fog of recollection. Louise would not ring. She had a key. It must be him! Valentine jumped up from his desk, flew down the barley-sugar-stick spiral staircase and flung open the front door.
The woman with all the dogs at Mulberry Cottage stood outside. She was wearing an extraordinary outfit and her wildly snagged hair was full of pollen and leaves and seeds and even a couple of blackberries.
It took Valentine a moment to collect his wits and a moment more to grasp what she was saying. It was some garbled tale about a motor car that would not reverse, yet another injured dog and someone called Piers who needed to be let out on the stroke of twelve if he was to maintain his natural position as team leader.
Valentine went to get his jacket. Whatever the drama actually involved, sorting it out would help pass the time until evening - when dusk would fall and he could once more present himself at the blue painted door.
Being invited to the Old Rectory for coffee, though not a rare occurrence, did not happen all that often. When Ann had rung up yesterday evening and suggested it, Louise had said yes straightaway although she had planned that morning to drive to the library at Causton. She could do so later in the day and was unhappy to find herself seeing this as ‘filling the afternoon up’. Needing to kill time was an unpleasant novelty. When working she had frequently prayed for a forty-eight-hour day.
She spent the time before leaving attempting to assess her relationship with Ann Lawrence honestly. Almost testing it for strength. As terms of friendship went, she hadn’t really known Ann very long. Their mutual confidences were not what some women might call intimate. But Louise had experienced a genuine degree of warmth in these exchanges and also felt that Ann would prove to be both discreet and loyal.
&nbs
p; The fact of the matter was that she was longing to share with someone sympathetic her worries about Valentine. There were other friends she could have talked to, but none nearby and no one who had actually stood face to face with the individual at the heart of the matter. She knew Ann loathed Jax, although this had never been put into words, and also suspected she was afraid of him.
For a while, sleepless in the middle of the night, Louise toyed with the idea of ringing the Samaritans. The service was confidential and perhaps it would be easier to talk to a kindly, anonymous listener, especially by telephone.
But Louise had no sooner started to dial than she had second thoughts. What could she say? My brother is homosexual and is seeing a man I believe to be dangerously violent. What would they say? Are you quite sure about that? No. How well do you know this man? Not at all. What age is your brother? Forty-three. Have you tried to talk to him about this? Once. It caused such a rift in our relationship I swore I’d never try again. Do you think he might be persuaded to talk to us himself? Under no circumstances.
End of story.
Now she checked the clock. Almost eleven. Louise got ready to leave in a half-hearted way, not bothering with make-up, just pinning her hair loosely on top of her head. She put on a loose-fitting, long-sleeved apricot linen dress and some dark glasses. The day was not really sunny enough to merit them but lack of sleep had left bruised-looking smudges beneath her eyes.
When no one appeared at the front of the Old Rectory, Louise made her way round the side of the house, relieved to see the garage door wide open and the car missing.
The back entrance was reached through a conservatory. Very large and very old, it held garden paraphernalia. Wellingtons, old jackets, a couple of straw hats and dozens of flowering plants. A well-established Hamburg vine as thick and tough as a man’s arm and planted directly in the earth twined, pale and splintery, across the roof. The whole place had a rich earthy fragrance that was very pleasant. Louise lingered a moment, taking pleasure in the dense almost oppressive silence broken only by the hiss and trickle of a garden hose.
A Place Of Safety Page 10