by DH Smith
Brighton filled a hole. The cake another. But it was a strain. When so much cannot be said… And she was relieved when Jack said he had to get back to work. She could manage Mia, no trouble. A delight. Take her over to the swings, and there was the museum…
Chapter 34
George was out with Buck, keeping him on his lead, or the border collie might run down to the lake where the police were. He was at the top of the hill, watching the activity below, in and around the taped-off area, about the size of a tennis court. Inside it were a man and woman, both wearing white, thin coveralls. They had hats, like shower caps, and gloves of similar material. The woman was on her hands and knees taking a plaster cast of something. The man was searching a patch of grass. Outside the taped area, a uniformed police officer, presumably a guard, stood idly watching him.
An ambulance van was by the lake. Two paramedics in green were placing the corpse on a stretcher.
He wondered whether it was suspicious to watch. Arsonists often joined the crowd to watch the fire brigade putting out the fire. But he was just a man out with his dog, curious. Anyone would be curious. That the body was about to be carried away didn’t bother him. That was inevitable. They would take it back to the mortuary, was it? for examination. All that cutting up he’d seen in numerous TV programmes. Cathy had assured him they’d find nothing but alcohol. No cuts or bruises, no bullet wounds. But enough booze to render him a brainless, woozy puppet who had stumbled aimlessly into the water and fallen flat on his face.
The woman making a plaster cast bothered him. What could it be of? Cathy said they’d cleaned the area. Brushed out any prints and scraped it with a board. So what did that leave? The builder and his daughter had found the body, so their footprints would be there. The photographer when he’d come to his house, had photographed the soles of their shoes. He’d seen him do it. So surely there’d be no need to make casts of theirs?
What then?
A print they’d missed. Better not be his. Or hell to buggery, the dog’s. That’d be dead easy for Cathy and Ellie to miss. A small dog print. Still, be simple enough to make up a tale for that. All he had to say was he’d taken the dog out last night, let him run free. They might ask him why he hadn’t seen the headmaster stumbling about or the body. All he had to say to that was that he just hadn’t. He wasn’t near the lake, just taking his dog for a walk and minding his own business. The dog had run off, he’d whistled and Buck had returned. Buck might have gone down to the lake, but he hadn’t.
Unless they found one of his prints. He knew he should’ve gone down first thing this morning and done a clean up himself. But he was so wiped out, had hardly slept. No excuse, he shouldn’t have left it to the DeNeuve women but done it himself. The only way to be sure.
And the copper scouring the grass? Just looking on the off chance for something, he supposed. Something that might have been dropped. Who knows by whom. But just that little thing that says you were lying. And then they don’t believe a word you’ve said and are all over you.
Even now, they were being so thorough. He hadn’t expected all this CSI stuff. Thought they’d come, look at the body and cart it away. And that would be that. Investigation over. Death by misadventure, wasn’t that the expression? Not all this palaver with taping off the area, making plaster casts, searching for heaven knows what and questioning everyone. His turn to be grilled pretty soon.
If he’d known it was going to go like this, then he’d have thought twice about agreeing to the cover up. Now he was an accessory. And no matter what he did now, he’d stay one. He thought he’d been so smart, putting those DeNeuve women on the spot. Job and house back or I spill the beans.
And did he and Jenny have their jobs back? The house? It was just words in the night with three women standing over a body in the lake. They’d agree to anything, caught like that. He needed to get it settled. In writing. Reinstated officially or we go to the law. So he and Jenny could feel secure, start unpacking properly. Instead of just putting a halt to it. He must see Mrs DeNeuve, tell her they needed to know where they were. In writing. Or else.
Or else what? How could he inform on them without incriminating himself? He couldn’t. Although, if he did it soon enough, the cops might leave him out of it on the grounds he was a witness who had come to them. But the sooner the better. Must get it in writing, today. No messing. The more time that passed, the more power he gave the DeNeuves. After he’d got the dog back home, he’d go up and see her. And not leave without a letter.
The policeman in the grass had found something. He was standing up and putting something in a plastic bag. The woman making the cast briefly came over to look. Some chat, and they went back to their tasks. The paramedics had laid the body on the stretcher and one of them was putting a belt round it.
This could all be routine. The way they always did things. But the police must believe in the possibility of foul play to be here at all; all it needed was some further hint, something one of them had dropped, conflicting statements – then all their lives, the whole of the school, would be trawled over. And if they got the evidence – then it wasn’t just employment and housing at stake, but their freedom too. He must keep calm. They hadn’t found anything yet. But how could he be calm with so much in the balance? House, job. Maybe his liberty.
How he wished that he hadn’t been out with his dog last night.
And the computers in the basement. There’s a complication. Good job he’d been able to get them out of the boathouse. As he’d guessed, the police wanted to look in it. And found nothing to interest them. But there was no way he could move the computers now until they were gone. Not likely they’d look in the basement. Why should they?
Unless they found something. Down there, by the lake.
The two paramedics were lifting the stretchered body. The officer who had been making a plaster cast was directing them, making them go the long way round with their burden, to keep as much as possible out of the crime scene area.
‘Hello, George.’
He jerked, surprised at the call. It was Jack, coming over from the car park.
‘What’s going on down there?’ he said, once he’d joined the caretaker.
‘A right little beehive,’ said George. ‘Been there hours. There was another couple for a while. Doing God knows what. They’ve gone. You do wonder, don’t you?’ He shook his head. ‘A man gets drunk and falls in the water, and how many coppers does it take to find that out? Including a flaming Detective Inspector. Haven’t they got any criminals to catch?’
‘I am surprised,’ said Jack, watching the scene below them. ‘Do they do this every time – or have they got a reason for thinking that it wasn’t an accident?’
‘A load of plods making work for themselves.’ He gave the dog lead a jerk. ‘Come on, Buck. Let’s get you back to the house. I’ve things to do.’ He turned to Jack. ‘Cops always make me nervous, no matter what. See you later, mate.’
And man and dog set off.
Chapter 35
Jack went back to his much interrupted job. He was here to make a living and there was no possibility he’d finish today. Not now. There was this door to finish and he hadn’t started on the one to the computer room. Sex, death and his daughter had taken him away from his chisel. Back to the doorjamb then. And he was soon chipping out the wood, working symmetrically, hitting the chisel gently with his rubber headed mallet.
Mia had seemed better when he’d left her. She’d even defended him against his mum. Though he was glad to be away. He and his mother couldn’t say much with Mia there, and maybe just as well. But they’d met, begun the process which was the main thing. He’d like to just give her the fifty quid and say sorry. Not that he had it. Or that she would accept it.
He had been a drunken bastard. He’d wanted a drink, she had money in her purse. That’s all that mattered at the time. There was no future beyond getting well and truly plastered.
But of course there is. Always is. The drunk’s sol
ution to everything is to stay drunk. Dissolve tomorrow and every problem in the liquid salve. But then you become the problem, foisted on everyone around you. Alison had ditched him. Changed the locks and divorced him.
Broke, he’d had no choice but to stay sober. He’d spent a week at the Salvation Army hostel until Bob offered him a sofa. And gave him work, but wouldn’t give him a penny until he was going to Alcoholics Anonymous. Which didn’t work for Jack. Too sanctimonious. All the Twelve Steps twaddle, the higher power mantra which he could do nothing with. What higher power? His mother knew all about it but he’d done with all that when he’d left the church choir as an eleven year old. And he wouldn’t fake it for AA.
Alcohol Halt was non religious. Though it picked up its share of AA move-ons who tried to infiltrate the 12 Steps. It depended who was convening on any night, how much was allowed. A crazy place really. A hall full of people who had one thing in common; they were drunks who wanted to stop drinking. The main thing though, he wasn’t judged there. Not as a drunk, ex drunk anyway. It was boring, often, but a safe place. A place where he could admit his problem and not be judged for it.
Except it was never quite like that. There was guilt and there was plenty of judgement. Not the fault of Alcohol Halt or the ex drunks who attended. Human nature, you might say. To live is to judge.
Putting down the chisel, Jack tried the lock plate. Not quite. A little needed to come out of the corners. He picked up a smaller chisel and began chipping at the little bits left over.
Ellie. She’d been a surprise. The first words she’d said to him when he first met her reminded him of the Queen. How do you learn to speak like that? he wondered. Of course, if they didn’t then you couldn’t tell the difference. Which was why they learnt to speak that way. He’d had a mate, a bit of a con man, who’d learnt to speak like a toff. All the better to con you.
Then again, Ellie had this place. Well, her family did. While his estate amounted to a one bedroom flat and a van. But that wasn’t so bad considering, not when you compared it to a park bench.
She was exotic in a way. But maybe he’d be to her lot. If he were to ever meet them. But to some of her crowd – he’d be the reverse. Common. Absurd to think of it like that. Judgement again. Blowing up difference to mark out who stood where. All the time.
Would Ellie and he have a fling, as they called it? For it couldn’t last. There were rules. There was class. But mostly there was money. If he had the money then he could talk as common as a Billingsgate porter and it wouldn’t matter. But he didn’t. And it did matter.
Make the most of it, as Bob would say.
The plate fitted. He marked the screw holes, half drilled them. And then screwed down the plate. He closed the door. Nothing stuck. He turned the key in the lock. Smooth.
He’d done one good job today.
Chapter 36
In seventeen years, he’d never come into this room before. What struck him was there was no new furniture in it. Even the sofa he was sitting on could be a hundred years old. For all he knew, two hundred. The table, the sideboard, all the little tables, but if they’d asked him, and they never would, he would say they had too much furniture here. It was like an antique shop. He’d clear half of it out. In the end, furniture was for sitting on or putting things on or in. Not that Jenny would agree with him. She’d probably like this stuff. The curtains were classy, he had to admit that. Long, thick with cords and tassels, nothing cheap there. But the pictures on the walls of their relatives in the lobby, he wasn’t sure about that. There were people in his family he wanted to forget as soon as the coffin lid was down. A bit creepy, all those looking down on you, asking, every day, if you are up to it.
When first looking in, seeing the pile of the carpet, it was all he could do to not take his shoes off. He wasn’t a servant, he told himself. He’d sat down, gingerly on the edge of the sofa, and they’d given him a coffee. Then talked about the police, what a nuisance they were, their interviews with them and so forth.
All small talk, done for politeness’ sake, to get to the point where he could say what he had come here for. Not easy, but he had to say it. And Jenny agreed. It had to be nailed.
What had they to lose? They were either to be thrown out onto the street, lock stock and barrel – or they challenged the DeNeuves. He knew he had a trump card, and it was an ace, but it must be played at just the right moment. One chance they’d get, and he mustn’t blow it.
He sipped his coffee. Don’t let them frighten you, George. Easy to say. His knees were shaking.
Vicky was in her customary armchair, Cathy sat on the arm of the other, as they chatted as if he were a regular visitor to the big house. There was though an edge, an invisible presence, that all sensed. A murder had been committed, all four of them knew and all four were avoiding the topic. Not much longer. George had to slam it on the table. Or why come here at all?
‘I need to know where I am, Mrs DeNeuve.’
She put her coffee on the cork placemat protecting the dark wood table.
‘In what respect, Mr Grove?’
No first name, he noted, as it would ever be. But that was neither here nor there.
‘With respect to my job,’ he said. ‘My house, Jenny’s job. We have a deal. Don’t we?’
Vicky put two fingers to her lips thoughtfully.
‘We do and we don’t,’ she said at last.
‘What do you mean?’
He was watching her every move, and keeping a sidelong eye on Cathy who he did not trust an inch. Here, in their domain, were they going to welsh on the deal?
‘The police are here,’ she said. ‘There is an investigation underway…’
‘This is all yours now,’ he interrupted, his arm indicating her new realm. ‘As his wife, you get the lot. You decide who goes and who stays.’
‘Yes and no.’
He threw his hands up and sighed.
‘Are you going to say that all day, Mrs DeNeuve?’
‘Things are not as simple as you want them to be, Mr Grove. You will have to wait a while.’
‘I don’t get this. I saw her…’ he indicated Cathy, ‘and her sister drowning Mr DeNeuve last night. And you looking on, like the big boss. Then and there, we made a deal. And I insist that you stick to it.’
‘That was before we knew you’d stolen our computers, Mr Grove,’ said Cathy.
He turned to her, surprised at her intervention.
‘That’s got nothing to do with what happened last night.’
Cathy widened her eyes. ‘Would you re-employ someone who’d stolen a dozen computers from you?’
‘Think what you say before you say it,’ he said, teeth gritted, no evasion. ‘I saw you murdering your father.’
‘I saw you transporting stolen computers,’ said Cathy.
He sighed with exasperation. And looked at Vicky secure in her armchair, Cathy hovering like a vulture. How had he ever got stuck with these women?
But he was where he was, in the mire with them.
‘I could go out of here and go straight to that Detective Inspector,’ he challenged. ‘And I could say what I saw last night at the lake.’
‘You are an accessory,’ said Cathy. ‘And a thief.’
‘I will deny I had anything to do with those computers,’ he said. ‘My word against three murderers. And, when it comes to it, they may not be that concerned with me as an accessory, if they want me as the main witness.’
He watched them. It was all on the table. Cathy was barely holding in her anger, her mother tugging at her ear.
‘You have it well thought out,’ said Vicky.
‘I want our jobs back. I want our house back. And I want it in writing,’ he said. ‘And if I don’t get it, then I go straight to that copper.’
‘If you do,’ said Cathy, ‘you’ll get no house and no job. And who will ever employ you again?’
George stood up in a fury, his arms flung at them.
‘I’ll take you down with me, I
will. Seventeen years I’ve been your menial. Yes, Mr DeNeuve, whenever you want, Mrs DeNeuve. Not once have I been in this house. Not even Christmas. I might as well have been a skivvy. Well I tell you this, both of you, may God be my witness, I will risk prison, but I won’t be put upon any longer. It’s time for respect round here. I’ve done my job well all my time here. And I’ve had enough of your insults. I’ve seen what I’ve seen. And you know what I’ve seen. So you write me that letter, Mrs DeNeuve, or I go and see that copper, right now.’
He stood, he waited. He had thrown his ace upon the table. Yes, he would go to the police. It was no bluff. It was the only power he had. They had to know he was serious. Or he had nothing.
Vicky rose.
‘Come upstairs to the office, Mr Grove.’
Chapter 37
Jack moved his tools to the computer room, now barren of computers. The room was a little way down the hallway from the classroom where he’d been working. He looked at the broken door, a mess. More damage in the quasi break-in. All done, it was now obvious, by the caretaker, who had the building keys, and had taken the computers and put them in the boathouse temporarily. Then smashed the window and doors to make it look like an outside job.
Did Jack care?
A little. It was a sort of vandalism. At the same time, he had sympathy for George, revenging himself on a heartless employer. He certainly wasn’t going to the police. The law might condemn George but there was a cosmic justice in George robbing the people who were throwing him out of house and employment.
Jack would do the repairs and go his way.
The door of the computer room was too far gone. Though the lock could be re-used. He’d need to get the keys for it from George. An irony there. Then he’d repair the doorjamb, again by sawing the damaged part out and replacing it.
He set to, beginning by taking the door off. There was a replacement in the basement, plus the spare wood he needed. That was tomorrow’s concern. He put two wedges under the door and with a screwdriver removed the top and bottom hinge. That’s when the wedges came into play, taking the weight of the door, stopping it ripping away as the last screws came out. Slowly he eased the remaining screws, his shoulder against the door. They came out without trouble.