The Price of Failure

by Jeffrey Ashford

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Is there any chance of having it installed by this evening?’

  ‘If I make it priority. What’s the best time to do the job?’

  ‘With work the way it is here, I can’t be certain when I’ll be at home. The best thing is to get the key from the next-door neighbour and she’s always in. My address is fifteen, Watts Road, and the spare key is with number thirteen. I’ll let her know by phone to expect someone.’

  ‘It’s as good as done. One thing, though, be a pal and don’t forget the requisition note, signed by the boss.’

  ‘It’ll be in the post.’

  Carr replaced the receiver. He carefully did not ask himself what possible action he could take – in the unlikely event that the blackmailer were identified through any future telephone call – that would not precipitate what he was so desperate to avoid.

  * * *

  He parked, walked along the pavement to number 36, climbed the steps, and rang the bell of flat 2. When a woman answered him, he said: ‘Detective Constable Carr, county police, Mrs Gladwin. Could I have a word with you?’

  Even through the distortions of the loudspeaker she sounded worried. ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.’

  The front door buzzed. He went in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. An elderly, faded woman – not the person whom he’d met on a previous visit – stood in the doorway of the flat. She asked him into the hall.

  ‘Sorry to bother you like this.’ He smiled. Gloria had once told him that he had the kind of smile which made old ladies think of their sons when young.

  ‘That’s all right. I’m not doing anything special because my husband’s out and I don’t have to cook his lunch. But I really don’t understand how I can possibly help you.’

  ‘I’m trying to contact Miss Varney, but she never seems to be in. I thought perhaps you’d know if she’s away on holiday?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’

  The tone as much as the words had suggested disapproval. ‘You’re not very friendly?’

  ‘It’s just that in the circumstances … I know I’m possibly being ridiculous, but…’

  ‘I don’t quite follow you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m not certain I should say any more.’

  ‘I need to know,’ he assured her authoritatively.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I never pry, but I can’t help having seen some of her visitors.’

  ‘And they are in some way unusual?’

  ‘They are all men and except for the last time, considerably older than she. And there was the man who called at this flat, thinking it was hers. When I opened the door he looked surprised and when I told him it was the next flat up he wanted, he was terribly embarrassed as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.’

  ‘You think she was entertaining these men?’

  She showed that she did not lack a sense of humour. ‘Even if she looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, I doubt all of them were uncles.’

  ‘You made a remark that suggested the last of her visitors you saw was different?’

  ‘There were two of them and the photographer couldn’t have been more than three or four years older than she.’

  ‘Why do you say he was a photographer?’

  A quick smile. ‘He had quite a lot of photographic equipment over his shoulder.’

  ‘What day was this?’

  She thought back. ‘I was on my way to Maude’s to go shopping and have a coffee at Leon’s, so it was a Monday.’

  ‘Last Monday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The detective’s prayer – Oh, Lord, never mind the brains, just grant me luck. ‘Can you describe the two men?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll bet you can. You’re obviously a very observant person,’ he said, shamelessly flattering her.

  ‘But they’d already started to climb the stairs up to the top floor when I left here so all I saw of them was their backs.’

  ‘But you know one of them was young.’

  She thought about that. ‘I suppose it was an impression; you know how one gains impressions without being certain why.’

  ‘Of course, but that you are so sure means you must have noticed more about them than you think you did. So describe them as clearly as you can.’

  The younger man had been slightly built, wearing jeans under a somewhat scruffy mackintosh; his sandals had flip-flopped as he’d moved; his mouse-coloured hair had been down almost to his shoulders and needed a good wash. His companion, perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, had presented a contrasting picture. Tall, well built, with broad shoulders; the fawn camel’s-hair overcoat had fitted him with the certainty of expensive tailoring; his black, curly hair – rather like her husband’s hair when he’d been young – had been carefully cut and trimmed. There was one more thing. As she’d started to go downstairs, she’d noticed a faint, attractive scent; probably an expensive aftershave lotion. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t help any more than that.’

  ‘You’ve done twice as well as you thought you were going to,’ he assured her. ‘There’s only one more thing and then I can leave you in peace. Would you know if Miss Varney owns or rents the flat?’

  ‘She rents it from someone with whom we’re quite friendly. Dennis Barker works in the Gulf area and when he comes back on holiday, he stays with his sister; he said it seemed ridiculous to have the flat empty for the three or four years he’d be away.’

  ‘Does he let it direct or through an agency?’

  ‘An agency; Imray and Philips. He reckons that they are the best in the area. We offered to help, of course, but he preferred to do everything through a professional third party in case there was any sort of trouble. To tell the truth, after that man called here by mistake, I was certain we ought to tell the agents what might be going on, but my husband wouldn’t hear of it. He was afraid that to do so might end up with our being sued for slander. In this sort of situation, it’s terribly difficult to know what to do.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s impossible,’ he said, with more force than intended. He thanked her for her help, said goodbye, and left. As he made his way down the stairs, he thought how luck seldom ran in one direction only. Good luck had brought Mrs Gladwin out of her flat in time to see the two men, but bad luck had ensured she stepped out too late to see their faces … Yet she had seen the fawn overcoat and that had reminded him of the man he’d seen leaving number 36 and walking to the silver Porsche. Yet bad luck had made certain that he also had only seen the man briefly in profile and then, when near enough to make out detail, from behind. If only good luck had prompted him into noting the registration number of that Porsche. One more if only …

  He drove around two sides of the common to join the inner ring road, turned off in time to make the one-way Bank Street, more familiarly known as the Street of Forty Thieves.

  The receptionist in Imray and Philips, whose proud boast was that they’d been in business since 1876 (making them one of the original forty), phoned three partners before she found one who was free.

  Evans was pleasant and helpful. After tapping out instructions on the computer keyboard, details of the letting came up on the screen; no notice of termination had been given by Miss Varney.

  ‘When’s the rent due?’ Carr asked.

  ‘At the beginning of the month.’ Evans fiddled with one of his coat buttons. ‘Is there some sort of trouble? Do we have to worry about the use to which the flat is being put?’

  ‘What makes you think you have to?’

  ‘She is a single lady and you are asking questions.’

  ‘You think it may have been used for immoral purposes?’

  ‘There always has to be that possibility. So difficult to prove, of course.’

  If only that were always true.

  * * *

  The phone rang twice. The first time the caller was a
friend, asking about Gloria; the second time, the blackmailer.

  The Caller Display unit was recording blocked identification. Carr pressed down the yellow button on the alert unit.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I had a word with someone in the division.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was difficult because I couldn’t let him start wondering why I was so interested…’

  ‘Is anyone in the bracket for the job?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Not even a whisper?’

  ‘Not so far. But because the job was so bungled…’

  The line was cut.

  He dialled the bureau.

  ‘Hullo, mate, I was just about to get on to you. That was from a call box in Charing Cross main-line station.’

  A couple of minutes later, he went through to the larder and poured himself a gin and tonic. In the past, he’d been astonished at the way in which criminals were often so blindly optimistic. Yet he had been hoping that the man who’d planned so cleverly would make the mistake of telephoning from a private address …

  16

  Despite the invasion of the chain stores and the supermarkets, Everden still boasted several small shops which specialized in quality rather than quantity. Carr walked along the pedestrianized upper High Street to the greengrocer. There were more of the large white grapes and by their side were nectarines. Asked to choose between grapes and nectarines, Gloria would have hesitated. He was about to enter the shop and buy both when he remembered that after paying for lunch at the canteen, he’d had very little money left.

  He walked down the High Street to his bank and inserted his card in the cashpoint, requested a statement. He was in credit for less than he’d hoped – only just over eighty-one pounds. There were a couple of bills which would have to be paid before the end of the month and they would swallow up a large part of that, and then there would be the continuing and unavoidable extra costs that followed from Gloria being in hospital, such as the extra petrol used in driving to and from the hospital. But he was damned if he was going to cut back on buying fruit, because it provided the only pleasure left to her. He withdrew twenty pounds.

  At the greengrocer’s, he bought the largest bunch of grapes on display and two pounds of nectarines. The man who served him added an extra nectarine because he had become so good a customer. He returned to the car, drove the fifteen minutes to the hospital.

  As he entered the ward, the sister stopped him and called him across to the desk. ‘Dr Calvin asked me to have a word with you.’

  He suffered an all too familiar feeling. ‘My wife’s bad?’

  ‘She has become unusually depressed and that’s obviously worrying.’ She spoke briskly, but not without a sense of sympathy. ‘Dr Calvin wonders if there’s a particular reason why she might be under additional stress?’

  ‘None that I know of.’ Then the bitter thought occurred to him that perhaps Gloria was subconsciously tuning into his emotional chaos. They had often been surprised to discover how the emotional state of one, even if carefully hidden, had affected that of the other.

  ‘You and she haven’t recently had any sort of a disagreement?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Perhaps it was the suddenly raised sense of guilt that made him say angrily: ‘What d’you take me for? You really think I’d come here and have a row with her in the state she’s in?’

  ‘I’m certain you’re not that kind of man, Mr Carr, but I had to ask.’

  After a while, he said: ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it … Dr Calvin says it’s important to try to cheer her up.’

  ‘The quickest way of doing that would be…’ He did not finish and ignored her look of questioning curiosity.

  He was shocked by Gloria’s appearance. He bent down and kissed her, handed her the bag of fruit. She did not bother to examine the contents before putting it on the table.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand as he chatted. For most of the time she lay still, her hand limp, her eyes unfocused. In desperation, he began to talk about the nursery, a subject that usually animated her. He said he’d seen some wallpaper that was exactly what she’d always wanted …

  She began to cry. Then she spoke in a rush, the words tripping into each other. The previous night, one of the other women in the ward had suffered a heart attack and had had to be rushed into intensive care; that was an omen. She was going to lose her child. He tried to make her understand how completely illogical such a belief must be, but she merely repeated herself, her voice becoming shriller. He switched the conversation, but for the rest of the visit was certain that her mind was not on what he was saying, but on her fears.

  On his way out of the ward, he spoke to the sister again. ‘I’ve done what I can. Which adds up to nothing.’

  ‘You may have helped more than you realize, Mr Carr, just by letting her release her feelings.’

  ‘Can’t you give her something stronger to help her depression?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, because of the baby.’

  ‘But she can’t go on as she is.’

  ‘She may recover spontaneously. It sometimes happens that way.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘We never consider worst scenarios.’ She studied him. ‘It can be an equal hell for those who are nearest. If you want my advice, you’ll make certain you spend the rest of the evening with friends. Worrying can’t change anything.’

  Good advice was given to be ignored. He returned home, repeatedly cursed the malign fate which had them in its grip, and drank too much. The nurse should have added that drinking didn’t change anything either.

  17

  On Monday morning, the mail included a large, fibre-reinforced brown envelope, addressed in childlike capitals. It was quite some time before he overcame his reluctance to open it. Inside were three thousand pounds, in used twenty and fifty pound notes. Payment for his betrayal.

  Now there could be no ifs, buts, or maybes. He should report the receipt of this money to Hoskin. He could claim he knew nothing about it, had no idea why it had been sent to him, but Hoskin would immediately suspect it was bung, even though no attempt had been made to conceal it. He’d start digging and wouldn’t stop until he knew all the answers.

  Carr held the thick bundle of notes between thumb and forefinger. More cash than he had ever handled before. When he passed it on, few would think him any the less of a traitor; nothing would be gained, all would be lost. So where was the logic in doing something that ended in disaster…?

  Four days to Christmas. Gloria had always known exactly what to give him for Christmas that would give him the greatest pleasure, while he had always had trouble thinking of a present for her. For once, that would not have been a problem if only … If only …

  * * *

  The nursing home was halfway up the hill, at the back of the ancient coastal town of Writstone; a large, rambling house, built for a man who had made a fortune from laxative pills when these had been considered a necessary part of every right-minded Christian’s diet, it had been converted at considerable cost three years previously. It stood in grounds of just over an acre, most of which lay in front, or on the sea side, giving the impression of untrammelled space despite the surrounding housing. There was a small residential staff and a pool of part-time helpers.

  Gloria’s room faced south and offered a clear view of the Channel; when there was little or no haze, she could watch the passing ships through binoculars. With an imagination almost as quick and wide as her husband’s, she imagined cargoes of ivory, apes, peacocks, sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine …

  The door opened and Carr entered. ‘Merry Christmas, my darling.’ She smiled with a warmth not often seen.

  He crossed to the bed, kissed her, handed her a small package wrapped in gift paper and tied with gold-coloured string. ‘I’m afraid it’s not very exciting.’

  ‘You’ve already given me the most wonderful present ever
. And I haven’t anything for you.’

  ‘I’ll take a raincheck … How’s junior?’

  ‘Very active. Had two bouts of kicking this morning.’

  ‘Then it’s a he and he’s in line for striker for Arsenal.’ She had refused to be told the sex of the child in her womb because, he was certain, then it remained just that little fraction less of a person and so should she lose it, the loss would be that little fraction less defined.

  ‘I wish I could get him to take his practice a little less seriously.’

  They laughed. Over the past three days, they had found themselves laughing over silly little things, as they had once often done.

  She untied the string, unwrapped the paper. ‘Truffles! Those heavenly truffles that remind me of our honeymoon … You really are terrible, putting so much temptation in front of me.’

  ‘You’ll get added pleasure every time you give way to it.’

  ‘You know the doctor said I still wasn’t losing the weight I should.’

  ‘Doctors are professional killjoys because that’s how they make people think they’re doing them some good.’ He moved the chair closer to the bed, sat.

  She reached out to grip his hand and squeeze it affectionately, then offered him the box. After he’d helped himself, she put a truffle in her mouth. ‘They really are out of this world,’ she said, as she swallowed. ‘For heaven’s sake, put the box out of reach or I’ll eat the lot.’

  He moved it to the table.

  ‘Do you know what? I very nearly rang the building society yesterday to wish the manager as wonderful a Christmas as he’s given me by letting you take out the second mortgage. He must be a very nice man.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘When I’m back in circulation, I’m going to tell him face to face what it’s meant to us.’

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t get the chance. He told me that he was retiring at Christmas and moving up north because that’s where he’s from.’

  ‘What a pity. I’d so like to have said it.’

  ‘I’m sure he understood when I thanked him from both of us.’