by Mal Peet
No, he would think about Annie. Not his mother. Not Godley.
An icy thrill ran through his bladder when the speaker clicked.
‘I am sorry that I alarmed you, Martin. Please remain in the car. I mean you no harm, I assure you.’
Martin refused to look in the mirror.
Godley said, ‘I’m going to wind the divider down.’
Martin heard the glass whisper down into its recess. His grip on the wheel tightened. A rat scuttled about inside his chest.
‘That’s better,’ Godley said. ‘Now we can talk.’
‘You are not real.’
‘Am I not? I feel quite real at the moment.’
‘You are a figment of my imagination.’
Godley clucked his dry little laugh. ‘Oh no, Martin. It’s not as bad as that. Don’t think that.’
‘You’re dead.’
‘Indeed I am. You’d know that better than anyone. You made a sturdy job of it, if I may say so.’
Martin forced himself to glance at the mirror. Only the right side of Godley’s face was illuminated by one of the wall lamps. But he was substantial enough and still smiling.
Soundlessly, Martin began to cry. Godley’s smile faded into dismay.
‘Please, Martin. Corporal Heath.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To go for a drive, of course. No, not now. You’re not up to it and the light is fading. Besides, Annie will be wondering where you’ve got to. Tomorrow morning. There are things we need to discuss.’
‘No. You’re not real. Fuck off. Leave me alone.’
The leather of the rear seat creaked softly. Something light and warm settled onto Martin’s shoulder, bringing with it the scent of eucalyptus. He cried out and shuddered away from it.
‘Tomorrow, Martin. Ah, here’s Annie now.’
She stood in the doorway with a cardigan over her shoulders. ‘Martin?’
He wiped his eyes quickly and wound down the window. She came to it and looked in at him.
‘I was wondering where you’d got to. What’re you doing?’
‘Nothing. Thinking.’
‘Well, stop it, then. Come indoors.’
‘OK. I’ll lock up.’
The mirror reflected the vacant passenger compartment.
When he came into the kitchen Annie clanked the range door shut and straightened up. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘Really. I’m OK.’
‘Hmm. I reckon I know what you need.’
She left the room and returned a minute later with a bottle in her hand.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘This’ll put some lead in yer pencil. Get the corkscrew.’
2
MARTIN HAULED the coach-house doors open but did not get into the car or look into it. He went to the big metal tank at the back of the coach house and filled the two-gallon watering can with petrol.
Dead-Not-Dead Godley’s voice from a year ago in his head:
‘As soon as Chamberlain came back from his little tête-a tête with Hitler in Munich and waved that scrap of paper in the air I knew that war was inevitable, Martin. So I had the tank installed and filled with three hundred gallons of petrol. In the nick of time, as it turned out. The Phantom is thirsty, as you know. Eight and half miles per gallon, on an easy run. How much is left, would you say?’
He’d squinted at the level in the glass tube. ‘Just over a hundred, I’d say, sir.’
‘That’s what I’d have thought. We haven’t stretched the old girl’s legs much these past years.’
Now, he lugged the can five times to the Phantom and gurgled the juice into her. Then he went up to his flat and washed his hands and face without looking in the bathroom mirror and put the cap and jacket on. He went back down the stairs and got into the driving seat of the car. The divider was down.
Godley said, ‘Thank you for dressing appropriately, Martin.’
‘All right. All right. You’re in my fucking head. So be it. Where d’you want to go?’
‘Do you feel able to drive competently, Martin?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do hope so. We’d both be most unhappy if you damaged the car.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Good. Do you know how to get to the Okement reservoir?’
He eased the Phantom down the lumpy service road and parked close to a windowless brick building from which a huge flanged pipe protruded then plunged into the ground. He hesitated, not knowing if he was supposed to hold the rear door open. Godley didn’t speak. When Martin looked in the mirror there was no one in it.
He got out of the car and lit a cigarette. A path of muddy gravel sloped down towards the reservoir’s margin, then turned and vanished behind greening birches and a tumble of rock. He walked to the periphery of the parking space and the dam came into view: a vast bulwark of granite blocks slanting out of the water. A balustraded walkway ran along the top of it. Godley was standing at its mid-point, his hands on the rail, gazing out over the lake. A pair of hikers passed him without a glance. Martin tried to hold his mind steady, as if it were something that might spill.
He ground the cigarette out and returned to the Phantom. After a minute or so he felt a momentary draught on the back of his neck, caught a hint of eucalyptus. In the mirror he watched Godley settle himself in the familiar, fussy, way.
‘Now then, Martin. There are things you need to know.’
‘Are there?’ He’d managed to sound ironic, and Godley caught it.
‘Yes. I’m very serious, Martin. I want you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say. For your own sake.’
‘Go on, then. I’m listening.’
‘Very well. So. You’ve conducted the whole business very well indeed. Like a well-planned military operation, one might say. With close attention to detail. But you’re not out of the woods yet.’
‘Aren’t I?’
‘No. I’m almost sure that the police have, ah, bought the suicide story. However, they will, inevitably and probably very soon, make certain discoveries that will make them highly suspicious.’
A cold twist of fear. Ah, Martin thought, here it comes.
He said, ‘What discoveries?’
‘I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it is vitally important that you do not know. That they surprise you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No. And that’s a phrase that may well guarantee your safety.’
‘My safety? What do you mean? I fucking killed you.’
‘Yes, and I’m not ungrateful. Unlike my wife, I lacked the determination to do it myself. I wasted years, living.’
Some time passed. Inexplicably, Martin found himself crying again. ‘Where are you, sir? When you’re not here?’
‘Nowhere, Martin. Not where you put me, if that’s what’s troubling you. The only place I am is my favourite place. Here. In the car. With you.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘It’s easier for me than it is for you. I understand that. But I’m not persecuting you. I’m not haunting you.’
‘Yes you are! That’s exactly what you’re doing!’
‘No. I’m protecting you.’
‘Protecting me? You’re driving me insane.’
He heard Godley shift in his seat. Then that same touch on his shoulder. Warm, feathery, like the belly of a bird settling there. This time he didn’t shrink from it. After a long moment it withdrew.
Godley resumed. ‘The police will come to the house again. They’ll want to talk to you and Annie again.’
‘Will they? Why?’
‘For reasons I cannot divulge. But when they do, it is essential, Martin, essential that their attention is directed to the bureau in my study.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Never mind. The bureau is locked. I would be reluctant to have it forced. It belonged to my father. T
he keys are in the little drawer set into the base of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Tell Annie that, Martin. Tell her to give them to the police when they ask. She’ll be reluctant, but she must. Understand?’
‘No.’
‘Good. One last thing. On no account must you – or Annie, for that matter – open the bureau before the police return. Promise me that you won’t, Martin.’
‘I promise.’
A flight of ducks passed low overhead then landed, yakking, on the water.
‘All will be well, Martin, all will be well. Now, what say we drive home via the A30? Let’s open the old girl up a bit.’
PART FOUR
Close Attention to Detail
May 1948
1
THE BAR OF THE WHITE HART began to fill with beery, cheerfully argumentative men wearing football scarves. Sheepstone and Panter carried their pints through into the lounge and sat at the small table close to the window. The inspector gazed out of it, sipped his bitter.
‘Penny for them, sir?’
‘Oh, nothing, really. Just what Archie would call an itch in the head.’
‘Try me,’ Panter said.
‘How far is it, would you say, from Exmouth railway station to where Godley’s clothes were found? Three-quarters of a mile?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘That’s quite a trek for an eighty-year-old in poor health, isn’t it? One who has to be helped onto a train?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘Simon Bloom told me – and this is between you, me and the gatepost, Ray – that Godley had more than enough pills to top himself if he’d wanted to. So why go to all that trouble, make up a tale about going to his solicitors, catching a train to Exmouth and chucking yourself in the sea, when you could do the job in the comfort of your own bed?’
Panter pulled the corners of his mouth down and shrugged. ‘Who knows, sir. Balance of the mind disturbed.’
‘Maybe. But both Martin Heath and Annie Luscombe stated that he seemed his usual self.’
‘Yeah. But it’s possible for someone to go nuts without it showing. On the outside, like. There’s also the fact that his wife drowned herself.’
‘So he did the same? What, to join her or some such nonsense?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of following her example, sir.’
Sheepstone humphed sceptically. He drank, then swirled his beer in his glass. ‘Fancy topping these up, Ray?’
Panter glanced at his watch.
‘Oh, come on, lad,’ Sheepstone said. ‘You can always blame me.’
‘I usually do, sir.’
When Panter came back with the drinks Sheepstone said, ‘What d’you make of those two, an’way? Heath and the lassie?’
‘He’s a bit of puzzle, sir, to my way of thinking. Educated type. Well spoken. Not your usual driver cum odd-job man.’
‘That’s what I thought. Could he be hiding anything, do you think? He struck me as being a bit … twitchy.’
‘Annie, Miss Luscombe, did say that he’d had a bit of a time of it in the war. That it’d shaken him up.’
‘Which means,’ Sheepstone said, ‘that he talks to her. About himself.’
Panter put his glass down precisely on the beer mat. ‘What are you saying, sir?’
‘Nothing. What d’you make of her?’
‘Well, um, not the sharpest knife in the box. Very upset about Godley’s disappearance, but …’
‘But?’
‘Well, maybe more concerned about herself than him. If the poor old bugger’s dead, what’s she going to do? She’d be out of a job. And a home.’
‘Good-looking piece, though, wouldn’t you say? Notice that, did you?’
Panter took a swig from his glass.
Sheepstone smiled and said, raising an eyebrow, ‘I noticed you noticing that, Raymond.’
‘Marriage hasn’t affected my eyesight, sir,’ Panter said, straight-faced. He glanced at his watch again.
‘All right,’ Sheepstone sighed. ‘I’ll let you go. So, Monday, unless anything crops up, get Martin Heath to come to the station and make a statement.’
‘Sir.’
‘Oh, and remind me to call whatsisname, Browning, first thing. We need to find out about Godley’s next of kin.’
Annie Luscombe lowered herself onto her side, breathing in slow gasps, and pulled the bedclothes up to her waist. She ran her right hand down Martin Heath’s chest and belly.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that was better. Last night you couldn’t come off no matter what I did.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I was a bit … edgy.’
‘No apology needed. You’ve more’n made up for it. But you’re all right?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘Sure? You’re not going to go funny on me, are you?’
He kissed her shoulder. ‘No. Promise.’
‘Good.’
She rolled away from him to pick up their wine glasses from the floor. He rejoiced in the wondrous curve of her back in the lamplight, the little dimples just above where her spine tucked itself between her buttocks. The miracle of her nakedness. And his own, so close to hers. She was the first woman he’d had sex with who knew his name and spoke his language. The first he hadn’t paid with cash or food or mercy. And she was beautiful. And fearless.
She handed him his glass and leaned back on the pillows. Despite the fire in the grate the housekeeper’s room was chilly but she didn’t cover herself. She was proud of her breasts and liked the effect they had upon Martin. And the effect he had upon them.
2
SHEEPSTONE’S TELEPHONE rang at three minutes to nine.
‘Yes, speaking. Ah, Mr Browning. I was just about to call you, as a matter of— Yes, that’s correct. No, I’m afraid not.’
Ray Panter knocked and entered the room. Sheepstone mouthed the word ‘Browning’ at him and gestured him to sit.
‘I see. And this is not something you’re willing to discuss over the phone? Of course. Shall we say eleven o’clock? Good. Thank you for calling.’
He put the phone on its cradle.
‘Bloody lawyers,’ he said. ‘Did you call Burra Hall yet?’
‘Just about to, sir.’
‘Don’t bother. We’ve been summonsed to Exeter.’
Jonathan Browning’s tall Georgian window commanded a fine view over the bombsite that until May 1942 had been Bedford Circus. The Luftwaffe had provided Browning with an uninterrupted sightline to the cathedral’s Norman towers, from which he now turned away.
‘And you are sure it was suicide?’
‘All the evidence points that way, sir.’
‘I must say I find it extremely surprising, as well as distressing. I’ve known Harold Godley for the better part of thirty years. I would not have thought him capable of such a desperate act.’
Panter said, ‘When did you last see him, Mr Browning?’
‘Ah. Precisely what I wanted to talk to you about. Please sit down, gentlemen.’ Browning sat at his desk and made a steeple of his fingers.
The detectives settled themselves and waited.
‘Harold came to see me in February. The twenty-fourth, to be precise. He instructed me to make changes to his will.’
He paused to rearrange his fingers. Sheepstone and Panter exchanged glances.
‘Harold was rather unusual in that he had, in effect, no next of kin. His only son was killed in France in 1918. His wife, ah, predeceased him by many years. Harold’s younger brother, Gerald, died in rather mysterious circumstances in Kenya in 1932. He was unmarried. Over the years, I have traced relatives on the, shall we say, more remote branches of the Godley family tree, but Harold felt no particular connection to them.’
Sheepstone leaned forward as if to speak but Browning held up a hand to silence him. Panter winced.
‘Harold was a very wealthy man,’ Browning continued.
‘Is,’ Sheepstone said.
‘I beg your pardon,
Inspector?’
‘We have no body. As things stand, we are working on a presumption of death. Strictly speaking, your client is only missing.’
‘Quite so, Inspector. I was coming to that.’
Sheepstone lifted a hand. ‘Of course. I apologise. Merely a technicality. You were saying, sir?’
Browning huffily regathered himself. ‘At a conservative estimate, his estate is currently valued at a shade under a million pounds.’
Fuck me, Panter thought and very nearly said.
‘Harold was greatly preoccupied by the lack of an heir, or heirs. Over the years, he revised his will several times. Prior to our last meeting, the proceeds from his estate were to be divided among a number of charitable institutions. The British Legion was the main beneficiary. There were also generous cash bequests to his employees, both past and present.’
Panter glanced at his boss. Sheepstone’s face was fixed and expressionless, a sure sign of impatience.
‘That was how things stood until February, when Harold made changes that greatly surprised me, to put it mildly. Disturbed me, in fact.’
‘Explain, please, Mr Browning.’
‘According to the terms of his present will, the bulk of his estate goes to charity, as before. But a full quarter, including Burra Hall and its contents – and his Rolls-Royce, which is mentioned specifically – is left to Martin Heath.’ Browning paused expectantly. He leaned back in his chair.
‘Oh dear,’ Sheepstone said quietly.
‘Indeed. I was not happy about it. I strongly urged Harold to reconsider. I mean, the fellow had been in Harold’s employ for a mere nine months or so. But he was adamant.’
‘Did he, Mr Godley, explain why he’d come to this decision?’
Browning sighed a long breath. ‘Harold said that Heath had served his country bravely and well. That much would seem to be true, by the way. He was awarded the DCM in 1943. Did you know that?’
‘No, we didn’t.’
‘Harold was also of the opinion that Heath had been severely damaged by the war. Psychologically. Spiritually was the word he used, actually. That he deserved to be looked after.’