Dying Fall

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Did you know,’ I said, as I slipped back into the car, purring away on double yellow lines, ‘that one of your rear lights has failed? The nearside one.’

  ‘Blast! We’re supposed to check them, you know, every time we take one from the pool. Have to get it fixed. No bike today?’

  I shook my head. ‘In this weather?’

  ‘Probably best not to anyway, in the circumstances,’ he said.

  ‘Why on earth –’

  ‘I was just thinking, Wajid’s death, George’s death –’

  ‘Things happen in threes? I’m not superstitious, Ian.’

  ‘Neither am I. I was just wondering if you might not be a bit – vulnerable, shall we say? – on a bike.’

  Groom, his shoulders hunched against the rain, appeared from the shelter of the building to open the car door. He made no attempt to help me out. He was about to shut the door again when I remembered my marking, in a plastic carrier in the front foot space. He looked at it with distaste: perhaps he’d expected an executive briefcase, but briefcases aren’t cyclist friendly – they’re hard to clip into place and don’t have enough room for sandwiches, a spare pair of shoes (I cycle in trainers) and wads of marking.

  The security officer, a kid in her teens, picked over the contents.

  ‘What about the band’s instrument cases?’ I asked. ‘It must take ages to check all of them.’ I opened my handbag obediently.

  ‘They have passes issued by the security people,’ she said. ‘And come in through the Artistes’ Entrance.’

  ‘The side door, you mean?’ I’d come in that way on Saturday. I didn’t realise I was an Artiste.

  Groom picked up the roses and tucked them stem first into the crook of his arm, letting them hang like a rifle. ‘This way.’

  We passed through the central plaza. Two men were still working on its centrepiece, a futuristic fountain involving, according to the press, a system of balances and valves which would form the visible mechanism of a huge water clock. Obviously they wouldn’t want a huge, ticking affair so close to the concert arena. But I suspected that somewhere hidden away was a neat little electronic chip that really ran it. A haze of dust covered everything: you couldn’t imagine it being clean enough for the Visit. One of the men started a power drill; without speaking, we speeded up, heading for the far doors.

  I could feel the silence as they closed behind us.

  ‘You’ve been here before?’ asked Groom.

  ‘That’s right. We did a joint rehearsal, the choir and the MSO. The band room is down there, and the changing rooms and loos. Typical, isn’t it, that they didn’t provide enough: goodness knows what’ll happen when everyone has to get through in a concert interval.’

  ‘Enough what? Sorry.’

  ‘Enough women’s lavatories.’ I meant to embark on some heavy joke, but stopped short. Suddenly a door slammed.

  It shouldn’t have alarmed me. There were people working all over the site, after all. But Chris had tensed as well. Then came another noise, more homely, infinitely less menacing. A sneeze.

  The tension dropped swiftly: we started to laugh.

  ‘That’s probably Stobbard Mayou,’ I said. ‘The conductor. He suffers from chronic hay fever, they say. And dust is likely to make it worse.’

  As if on cue, Mayou appeared from the shadows of the far corridor, slinging an enormous sports bag, the sort favoured by our students, over his right shoulder. He was wearing a blouson jacket and snug-fitting jeans. Chris Groom’s eye fixed on what he carried in his left hand. I suspected he would dislike on sight what was indisputably a handbag.

  I was right.

  ‘Chief Inspector Groom, West Midlands CID,’ he said formally, flicking out his ID.

  Mayou shifted his sports bag to the other shoulder and put out an easy hand. ‘Good evening, Chief Inspector.’

  Even during the stress of Saturday’s rehearsal, I’d liked his smile, and now I realised how pleasant his voice was – a very warm baritone. Beneath his blond, curly hair his face glowed with clean-shaven health under an unobtrusive tan. His eyes, cold and dominating during the altercation on the platform, were now merely alert and interested and very blue. Obviously all that arm-waving did great things for the pectorals. And he had the most beautiful hands – long-fingered and elegantly boned.

  I thought Groom’s handshake looked a bit perfunctory.

  ‘Any problems, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘None. But I’m surprised to see you here, sir. I understood the building would be empty.’

  ‘Far from it, alas. It sounds like they’re pile-driving out there. And I’m told some of the guys will be working all night, they’re so behind schedule. Tell me,’ said Mayou, turning his immaculate smile on me, ‘don’t I … haven’t I –?’

  ‘Yes. Sophie Rivers. The back row of the sopranos.’

  ‘Sophie,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Sophie Rivers. Funny thing, names, they’re a closed book to me. But faces – they’re all here.’ He touched his forehead. ‘Particularly pretty ones – Sophie.’

  A short silence. I could hardly respond to that sort of line. And both men were waiting for the other to leave. A matter of not losing face.

  I relieved Groom of the roses. ‘I’ve come to lay these on the spot where George died,’ I said. ‘The bassoonist.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Mayou. ‘A real tragic loss. I admired and respected that man.’

  ‘It was mutual,’ I said, smiling, but suddenly shy.

  ‘I expect you’ll be wanting to go on your way, Mr Mayou,’ said Groom suddenly. Although, like Mayou’s, his voice was warm and pleasant, with no hint of a Brummie whine, he could also pitch it two or three notes higher and make it very cold.

  I expected Mayou to bridle, but he didn’t. He smiled equally on us both, showing just enough of his teeth. ‘Sure. I guess it’s a kind of private occasion. Tell me, how did he come to have this accident?’ He swung his sports bag on to the other shoulder. He intended to stay, whatever he said.

  ‘That’s still under investigation.’

  ‘But surely not by the police? Tony Rossiter said it was a matter for – what did he call it now? – those safety people?’

  ‘The Health and Safety Executive. I’m just here to accompany Sophie,’ he added, his voice dropping rather too possessively on the last two syllables.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mayou, altogether too meaningfully. ‘See you around then – Sophie. Inspector.’

  We watched him walk towards the automatic doors. When he rehearsed us, he wore an enormous sloppy T-shirt, so this was the first time I could observe the perfection of his buttocks. Halfway down the corridor he turned, and gave us a deprecating wave – you could imagine him using the same gesture to raise audiences to even greater levels of rapturous applause.

  I can only describe the noise Groom made as ‘Tcha’.

  ‘You don’t like musicians then?’ I prompted him as we followed the corridor through another set of automatic doors.

  ‘We are into generalisations, aren’t we?’

  ‘Sorry. But you don’t like Mayou?’

  ‘No.’ There was the slightest pause. ‘Do you?’

  ‘George did. And George was the best judge of character I ever knew.’

  Groom said nothing, but turned abruptly towards another security desk. This time he had to sign us in, and a sad-faced Irishman handed over a couple of hard hats. He nodded at the flowers. ‘Nice gesture, like. I like a nice rose myself.’

  I touched the tip of one of the roses. I wished they smelt. But roses like that never seem to.

  Why George should ever have ventured out there simply defeated me. All the things he loathed most were there: diesel fumes, arc lamps, brutal machinery (‘Plant!’ he would exclaim. ‘Haven’t they ever seen a plant?’). Labourers were still busy, their voices overloud across the occasional sudden silence.

  I put the roses down quickly and turned back into the building. There was no sense of George in all that mud.

&nbs
p; Chapter Seven

  Tuesday passed. That is the best I can say about it. I got home weary after my evening class to find on the doorstep a spray of flowers and a note from Aberlene. Inside on the mat, with several bills, lay a note from Aggie, who now had the flu herself. Had I remembered the binmen and her plants? I did the weekend’s curtains and lights routine again. Then I forced myself to eat – I do a truly reprehensible cheese on toast, oozing with Worcester sauce and raw garlic – and reached for the day’s Guardian. The education section. And a possible job in Huddersfield! A promotion. A nice part of the world to live. The Choral Society and infinite numbers of Messiahs! George used to regale us with the story of the violinist who dreamt he was playing Messiah in Yorkshire and woke up to find he was.

  There was a phone number, so I used it, and started to draft my CV.

  I have taught students, every year for the last ten, how to draw up a CV. We discuss what’s relevant and what order to put it in. I remind them always to keep a copy, preferably on disk, so they can constantly update it. Obvious. Easy.

  Except I’d not applied for a job for some time, and didn’t have a disk to my name. That would be a question I could ask at interview, if I got that far. Would they allow me IT training? I wrote it down. And then started messing with CV headings.

  The front doorbell rang.

  Crazy: my hair stood on end. And I could hardly walk.

  Whoever it was rang again.

  I forced myself to the window, to peer through a gap in the curtains. I couldn’t see much – although I’d got one of those intruder lights, I kept it switched off because our local foxes activated it all night long. So all I could make out was a dark, bulky shape. Perhaps the car would give me a clue. No car except my neighbours’ collection.

  The movement of the curtains must have given me away, because the figure stepped back, looking round.

  And then I laughed. No one to be afraid of. Jools.

  As I let her in, I gabbled with embarrassment and relief.

  We hugged, but without enthusiasm, it seemed to me, on her side. It was patently a duty call. I’d have felt awkward myself, trying to console someone for the loss of a person I hadn’t liked. They’d had to get on when they worked together – there’s no room for prima-donna-ism in an orchestra. And George spent a great deal of time helping her with her technique – she’d never quite lived up to the promise she’d shown at her audition and at her subsequent trial. Not that he ever complained about her, because he was sensitive to my loyalties: Jools might not be a close friend but she was an old one.

  Without saying anything she pushed a couple of tapes at me. The Firebird, with a particularly lovely solo from George, and a couple of Haydn symphonies. I was very touched.

  She accepted my offer of coffee but was scathing when I produced my last drop of the summer’s duty-free brandy.

  ‘I don’t drink, remember. Not when I’m training.’

  ‘But there’s only an eyeful –’

  She pushed the bottle away. Her sleeve caught in the glass, sending it spinning across the table. I caught it.

  ‘I’m taking this seriously. So no alcohol. And you’d be a lot fitter if you cut down.’

  This was not the conversation I’d expected. And I resented any suggestion that I wasn’t fit. I cycled everywhere, jogged regularly, and when I was bored – which I suppose was not all that often, really – I worked out with weights at a fitness centre.

  ‘Jools, please –’

  ‘Tea. Coffee. All that tannin and caffeine,’ she continued. ‘Look at your teeth.’

  ‘What have my teeth got to do with George’s death? Or even, to stretch a point, the murder of Wajid? Because those are the only things I can spare time to worry about at the moment.’

  ‘Worry about? But they were accidents. At least George’s was. And the kid died in a family feud, they say. You keep out.’

  “They”?’ My turn for an ironic repetition.

  ‘Everyone. The papers.’

  ‘Since when have the papers been interested in the truth?’ I admit to having a problem with the British press. But I refused to get on my soapbox. I merely smiled, grimly.

  It’s difficult to describe Jools’s movement as a flounce, but no other word comes near. It took her from the table to the chair where she’d slung her jacket. I could smell the leather, it was so new. She shrugged herself into it: ‘I might as well go. I only came because I thought you’d be upset.’

  ‘I am. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I mean, I never liked him the way you did. I always thought he was a bit of a bore. Always had his nose in other people’s business. Those stupid jokes. All that fuss about making his own reeds.’

  Expecting George to buy ready-scraped reeds would have been like expecting me to buy TV dinners.

  ‘And he used to rabbit on about the government. All the time.’

  Our views were very similar.

  ‘And another thing –’

  ‘He was my friend, Jools.’

  She looked at me, an expression on her face I couldn’t identify. Anger? Grief? I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I’m sorry. You know, I’m really miserable. Don’t know why. Like PMT, only it isn’t.’

  Any other time I’d have given her a quick hug, but tonight she’d hurt me too much.

  ‘You’re sure it isn’t that weird diet of yours?’ I asked eventually.

  ‘Nothing weird about it. All the supplements are pure and natural. You just have this bee in your bonnet. I’ve had enough. I’m going home.’

  I stood up politely, suppressing an almost overwhelming desire to throw her out physically. Not that I could have done, anyway. Not the new-look Jools. ‘We’ll meet up another night, shall we? When we’re both feeling a bit better?’ I suggested.

  ‘If you like. But I dare say I’ll be pretty busy. They’ll be wanting me to sit up.’

  ‘Sitting up’ has nothing to do with posture. It means moving up in the pecking order. And I didn’t think they would want her to do anything of the sort.

  Accidental death, my arse.

  I’d managed to wangle some time off on Wednesday morning to go to the coroner’s court for the inquest on George. Some time, no doubt, I’d have to give evidence in the Wajid affair, but there’d been a perfunctory adjournment since the cause of death was so palpably unnatural.

  If I was fizzing with a volatile mixture of anger and pain, Tony Rossiter’s face showed scarcely disguised relief. There are times when I wonder if being a manager ought to carry a government health warning, it does so much harm to your moral judgement. He’d phrased his replies so carefully that the impression of George the coroner must have got was of a man on the verge of senile dementia. I didn’t wish to speak to him and rapidly put as much space between us as I could.

  I was staring into the street, seeing nothing, when I smelt an aftershave approaching.

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Mr Mayou?’

  ‘Stobbard. I was thinking all this might be a bit upsetting for you.’ He leaned forward, his head slightly to one side.

  I smiled, grateful for the sympathy in his voice. Before I could speak, however, another aftershave arrived.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, Ms Rivers, if you’ve a moment,’ came Chris’s voice.

  I assumed from his tone he meant officially. Stobbard Mayou lifted an ironic eyebrow. ‘Ms Rivers?’ he repeated, sotto voce.

  As Chris shouldered forwards, Stobbard took my hand lightly between his, and brushed a kiss on to it. Then he backed away and was gone.

  There didn’t seem to be any special reason for Groom’s interruption. He made a few bland comments, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked me if I fancied a sandwich. Which is how we came to be sitting in a miserably loud wine bar, drinking an exceedingly quiet mineral water apiece. Chris was officially on duty, after all, and I had to battle later with a stroppy group of GCSE repeats. Aftab’s group, as it happened.

  We had started
to bicker.

  ‘Of course we make mistakes. Very highly publicised mistakes they are, too. But we get it right most of the time.’

  ‘So I should bloody hope. But you haven’t got it right this time.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting someone lured this absent-minded old geezer out into the mud and whacked him?’

  ‘Take out those derogatory adjectives and yes, you have it to a T.’

  William Murdock has the sort of minimalist sartorial philosophy that means if you turn up in a suit people will ask how you got on in your interview. So I preferred to dash home to change before I tackled the GCSE group.

  I was just putting the key into my front door when a car sighed to a halt. Another status symbol for my neighbour, no doubt. Should I even bother to look round? They’d expect me to admire the bloody thing and I wasn’t in the mood for giving fulsome praise.

  ‘Sophie?’

  The big Renault wasn’t a new toy for the neighbours, then. It was a new toy for Tony Rossiter. He smiled, perhaps a little shamefaced.

  ‘OK, so you wanted to show off to someone,’ I said. Then I grinned. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. We both understood that all those years behind us made apology difficult but forgiveness essential. And in a way, showing me this car – only 459 miles on the clock! – was his apology.

  The car sat sleek and opulent among the beat-up Fiestas and Allegros (most of them non troppo by now), and asked to be stroked or vandalised, depending on your persuasion.

  ‘Five-speed gearbox –’

  ‘So I should hope,’ I said seriously.

  He looked at me sideways. ‘And air conditioning –’

  ‘For this climate!’

  ‘Well … ’ He looked sheepish. Perhaps I should give up baiting him and try to be simply nice. He joggled his keys at me. ‘Try it?’

  I knew better than to think he meant me to drive it. What he wanted me to do was savour the leather upholstery.

  A couple of neighbouring curtains twitched. Him in his executive suit, me in my serious-occasions one. A posh car. The man waving phallic symbols around. I felt as if I’d stepped into a TV advertisement. At least I could do something about my clothes.