Thicker Than Water

by Anthea Fraser

  The motorways were black and shining in the rain, and occasional accidents, lit by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, reduced the holiday traffic to a crawl. All in all, it was a wonder I completed the journey in just over three hours.

  The answer machine was flashing as I let myself, still shivering, into the flat. A message from Patty, rather wistfully wishing me Happy Christmas, and three from Hayley, enquiring, with increasing impatience, when she could expect me, and where the hell was I?

  I poured myself a tumblerful of whisky, and drank it standing in the middle of the room. It looked strangely unchanged from the last time I’d seen it, before I became a murderer.

  This, I told myself, would not do; it was essential that I pulled myself together. At long last, all had gone according to plan, and there was absolutely no way I could be linked with Abigail. Until, that is, I wanted to be, and I hadn’t thought that through yet. Yes, I had her confession on tape, but I didn’t intend handing it over till I had the full set.

  After a very hot bath and some sleeping pills, I fell into bed and a deep, blessedly dream-free sleep, waking to the sound of church bells. Thankfully, my self-control was back in place, and I was able to go through the routines of the day without giving any hint of the turmoil inside me.

  By Boxing Day, however, reaction had set in, in the shape of flu-like symptoms – more shivering, a headache, sore throat. I took to my bed and stayed there, refusing all offers of help from my sister, and emerging only to heat up some soup. Though anxious to see the papers, I hadn’t the strength to go downstairs, let alone along the street.

  The murder did, however, make the television news: the body of a woman identified as Abigail Markham had been found in an abandoned orchard outside Inchampton; she’d been stabbed and left hanging from a tree. A post-mortem revealed the hanging had taken place after death, and police were puzzled by this apparent double execution. Another curious factor was that a blank picture postcard had been tucked into her pocket. According to James Markham, the dead woman’s husband, his wife had received a similar card through the post some weeks previously, which had upset her at the time. Abigail Markham, a well-known interior designer . . .

  The rest of it washed over me. They’d fastened on to the postcard; that was good. Don’t worry, mates, you’ll have two more before we’re done.

  I went back to bed.

  Back to school again, and a new year. What a time this was all taking. Nevertheless, anxious to avoid falling ill again, I waited a week or two before turning my attention to Cal.

  My first act was to repeat my Internet search of the phone book, and it didn’t let me down: Callum S Firbank, The Poplars, Richmond Close. I copied out the address and phone number, and sat back to consider.

  I was pleased with the postcard trademark and intended to repeat it, but since I’d only two left, I couldn’t spare one to post as an advance warning. Some other method would be needed. Silent phone calls, perhaps? Trouble was, there was nothing sufficiently unusual about them to suggest a personal threat.

  Although Cambridge, like Inchampton, was only three hours’ drive away, a weekend wouldn’t be long enough for my reconnaissance. No use trying to rush things, I told myself, reining in my impatience; once again I’d wait until half-term, in mid-February. My profession was certainly proving an asset; no other job would have given me so much leeway in which to scout out the ground. And it wasn’t long till February.

  Ignoring Patty’s hint of a Valentine meal out, and hoping Interflora would let me off the hook, I drove to Cambridge on the Saturday morning, locating the relevant suburb with no difficulty. Very plush. Large houses, large gardens. No doors opening on the pavement here. All the same, a different approach would be needed.

  As luck would have it, there was a small park almost opposite the house, which provided a first-class vantage point. The only drawback was that as it wasn’t warm enough to sit there, I’d have to keep strolling about, and hope I wouldn’t attract too much attention. Too bad I hadn’t a dog.

  Aware that I’d need to spend a fair bit of time in the area to monitor Cal’s movements, I’d taken the precaution of bringing a variety of coats and jackets with me, even a baseball cap which might help my disguise. Also, though it was more expensive, I’d booked into an hotel rather than a B and B, feeling it would be more anonymous.

  I hadn’t brought any tools, since there was no chance of killing him on this visit; I’d need to know more about the layout and his lifestyle, and also I wanted to give the fear factor time to kick in. My aim this week was to learn as much as I could about him – where he worked, how he spent his spare time – and sow some seeds of disquiet. Then, during the second half of term, I’d settle on my plans for the Easter holidays.

  It was obvious from the word go that the Firbanks and their next-door neighbours were best buddies. There was a continual toing and froing between the houses; in fact, the kids were running back and forth so much, I couldn’t make out who belonged where. Then Mrs Firbank went round, returning minutes later with Mrs Next Door, and finally, when Callum himself appeared and began to wash his car, he was joined by her husband, who stood chatting.

  While pretending to admire some blossom by the park gate, I studied Cal carefully. He was of medium height, slightly built, with mid-brown hair. Mr Average in person, he wouldn’t be easy to pick out in a crowd. The other man was taller, fairer, more confident-seeming, and at first I thought this closeness between the families might be a handicap. But then I began to see it could be useful. I’d follow the neighbour as well, and, with luck, make use of him to put the wind up.

  Sunday was, as usual, a wasted day, the two families not venturing outside their own front gates. But by eight thirty on Monday, I was in my car at the end of Richmond Close, waiting for Callum to emerge. When, at eight forty-five, he did so, in the newly cleaned Bentley, I slid in behind him and followed him to town. There, however, he eluded me by turning into a private car park, while I had to seek out a multi-storey.

  Having left my car, I walked back to the building behind which he’d driven, and studied the brass plaques beside the door. Bingo! On the third floor were Hamilton and Firbank, Chartered Accountants. I dialled directory enquiries on my mobile, asked for the firm’s number, and noted it in my diary. That would come in useful later.

  I filled in the rest of the day as best I could, appreciating for the first time how dull a private eye’s job must be, but by five o’clock I was back at the entrance to the car park, needing to know what time Cal left work. He was almost too predictable, emerging just on five thirty.

  I signed myself off, and spent the evening at a cinema.

  The next morning, I decided to try my luck following his neighbour. He didn’t leave home till almost ten, by which time I was thinking I must have missed him. And, to my surprise, he led me not to the business sector of town, but the local hospital, where he parked in the doctors’ bay.

  Well, well! I hastily drove to visitors’ parking, but by the time I reached the building, he’d disappeared inside. I went in after him, and approached the receptionist.

  ‘Excuse me, could you tell me if that was Dr Davies who just came in?’

  She looked up with a frown. ‘We haven’t a Dr Davies working here, sir. That was Dr Nelson.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. My mistake.’ And I made my escape.

  Dr Nelson. It didn’t take me long to confirm that R J L Nelson lived at Tree Tops, Richmond Close. Once again, Bingo!

  Having decided on my method of approach, I waited outside the hospital that evening, praying he wouldn’t be on call or otherwise unable to leave at a normal time. I’d begun to think I’d miscalculated when he suddenly appeared, hurrying towards his car.

  I caught at his arm. ‘Excuse me – Dr Nelson?’

  He stopped, frowning. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace someone called Callum, and was told you were a neighbour of his.’

  His frown deepened. ‘Callum Firbank,
you mean?’

  ‘Ah, so that’s his name now. Thank you!’

  His brows drew together, and I went on quickly, ‘Do you happen to know if he ever lived up north?’

  Nelson gave a short laugh. ‘That’s a lot of questions, Mr –?’

  I dodged that one, and, cutting off my next question, he said brusquely, ‘I’ve no idea where he’s lived. Now you really must excuse me.’ And he walked quickly away.

  As I’d intended, I’d aroused his suspicions by my odd questions, and I didn’t doubt he’d relay them to Callum.

  Sleep well, my friend!

  Nothing much happened over the next couple of days. Each lunchtime, I followed Callum to a restaurant where he met friends or colleagues, but nothing in his daily routine gave me any clue as to where I could eventually approach him. My only consolation was that at least I now knew something of his lifestyle; I could make use of that in my planning once I got home. Meanwhile, the week was running out, and before I left, I wanted to insert one more seed of anxiety.

  I hadn’t been back to the Close, but on the Thursday evening I took up my post in the park, and waited for his car. Time moved on, and I was about to give up when I saw the doctor’s car approaching, and moved quickly to the gate. I was wearing a conspicuous red anorak, and when I was pretty sure he’d seen me, I dodged back behind the gate post.

  He turned into his driveway, got out of the car, and stood for a minute looking across the road. I held my breath. Would he come after me? That wasn’t part of the plan. Fortunately, he decided against it and went into the house.

  I was debating whether or not to wait any longer, when Callum’s wife came out of her house, got into her car, and drove off. They must be meeting in town. I’d have to hope Dr Nelson would pass on the sighting.

  That was the end of my preparations, really. Except that one morning about three weeks later, thinking a reminder mightn’t go amiss, I phoned Hamilton and Firbank and asked to speak to him. To my surprise, he’d not yet come in, and his secretary offered to take a message. I told her it was a personal call, and when she suggested he phone me back, said it didn’t matter and rang off, my heart racing.

  Though actually, I thought, as I made my way to the gym, it didn’t make much difference; I’d have hung up as soon as he answered. This way, he’d get the message, and with luck it would give him some more sleepless nights.

  Then, a week or two later, something totally unexpected happened. I was having supper in front of the telly, only half listening to the news, when the name Richmond Close leaped out at me, and I straightened so fast I spilt my beer. A boy had been murdered during some kind of fête, and he was the son of Dr and Mrs Nelson! Must be one of the kids I’d seen on my visit. He’d been with ‘a friend of the family’ – Callum, I wondered? – when he’d disappeared.

  Well, well, so my quarry would be having some extra sleepless nights, without me having to lift a finger.

  Easter was later this year, so Mum’s anniversary fell the first week of the holidays; and since Hayley wanted me to spend the day with her, it meant delaying my return to Cambridge.

  What would Mum think, if she knew what I was doing? What would Dad? It was for them, really, that I’d embarked on this, but I knew I was now doing it for myself. And to be honest, I was enjoying the hunt. There was something exciting about playing detective, the initial tracing and tracking down, the secret spying, the injections of fear. It had become a deadly game, revenge not only for Dad’s death and Mum’s hard life, but for the slights and snubs the Pooles, as they’d then been, inflicted on me as a kid. They were getting their comeuppance, and before they died, they understood why. There was tremendous satisfaction in that.

  ‘It doesn’t seem a year ago, does it?’ Hayley said tearfully, as we stood by the grave in the windswept cemetery. She bent and inserted the flowers we’d brought, one by one, into the holder.

  I thought of all that had happened since, the change in me, the hardness, the cold calculation.

  ‘In some ways it does,’ I said.

  ‘And that stuff she told us before she died. I just can’t get it out of my head. How could she bear it, Bry, knowing all those years that whoever killed them had got away with it, and let Dad take the blame?’

  I said carefully, ‘What would you do, Hayl, if you found out who’d done it?’

  She turned her tear-stained face, meeting my eyes. ‘Stick a knife in them!’ she said.

  Shock went through me, prickling my skin. ‘Really?’

  She gave a choked laugh. ‘Don’t be daft, Bry.’

  ‘Well, what would you do?’ I persisted.

  ‘Get the police on to them, of course. What else?’

  I let it rest there.

  It was Good Friday when I finally returned to the park, nearly two months since I’d been there. In the meantime, spring had arrived, and leaves on the trees obscured part of my view across the road.

  I’d expected, since it was the holidays, that the kids would be running back and forth, but there was no sign of them – no sign of anyone, in fact. Both front doors remained resolutely closed. The Nelsons would be grieving for their son, but the Firbanks should be around. Then, like a lead weight, a possible explanation struck me. They’d gone away for Easter! Why had that never occurred to me?

  I swore fluently. Little point in hanging around, then.

  I turned to go, stopping in my tracks as the front door of Tree Tops swung open and Dr Nelson, his wife and the little girl emerged. They all looked sombre and somehow deflated, very different from the carefree family they’d been. The doctor opened the garage doors and drove the car out, while his wife and daughter stood in silence. Then, still without exchanging a word, they got into the car and drove off.

  I didn’t bother to show myself, not wanting to intrude. In any case, with all that had happened since, he’d have forgotten me, even if Callum hadn’t.

  Well, I’d been wrong about the Nelsons being away; perhaps the Firbanks weren’t, either. I considered ringing their doorbell, but decided against it. If they were home, I didn’t want a confrontation. Not at this stage.

  I walked back to my car, parked, as usual, in the next street. They might just be out for the day; I’d come back tomorrow, and try again.

  But there was still no luck, which meant that, infuriating though it was, I’d have to kick my heels till the weekend was over. At least I’d the advantage that Callum had to be back at work on Tuesday, whereas I’d another week of holiday. And though as yet I’d no definite plan, I wasn’t worried. It was best to remain flexible, and I’d no doubt whatever that my mission would be accomplished.

  I spent the weekend wandering round the town, drinking coffee at the quayside and walking alongside the river watching the punts go by. But all the time, inside me, excitement was building, drying my mouth and bathing my body in sweat. Soon, very soon, I would cross Number Two off my list. Mingling with the other tourists in the spring sunshine, I wondered how they’d react if they knew I had murder in mind.

  After dinner in the hotel on Easter Monday, I went to my room. The Firbanks should be home by now; time, perhaps, for a phone call. I took out my diary, checked the number, and punched it out, hearing the phone ringing in distant Richmond Close.

  I almost jumped when a voice in my ear said, ‘Callum Firbank.’

  I held my breath for several seconds before breaking the connection. He was back. We were on track at last.

  There was no point driving out to the Close in the morning, since he was sure to be coming into work. Instead, I waited on foot at the corner of his building, and sure enough, at five to nine, he drove into the car park. I decided I’d waited long enough, and today would be D (for death) Day; I’d just have to trust the opportunity would arise.

  And at lunchtime, I hit the jackpot. Callum emerged with two other men, and they made their way not to the usual restaurant, but to a pub down one of the side streets, where they joined another man at a table. Shoulder-high partitions
divided the tables, making a series of little booths, and by a stroke of luck, the one next to theirs was free. I slipped into it.

  ‘Good weekend, Callum?’ That was the man who’d been waiting.

  ‘OK, thanks. We were with the mother-in-law.’

  ‘Contradiction in terms!’ said someone else.

  ‘No, she’s good value, is Daphne. The family’s staying on till the weekend.’

  So he’d be alone in the house! I’d started to amend my plans, when a third voice said, ‘Got your speech ready for this evening?’

  ‘Just about,’ Callum replied. ‘I’ll be glad when it’s over.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be great. And at least the food’s always good at the Alhambra.’

  So. Callum would be attending an official dinner at the Alhambra Hotel. Better and better. I’d be waiting for him afterwards in the car park.

  As before, I’d prepared the confession before leaving home, with much the same wording as Abigail’s; and the same tape was back in the recorder, so that his admission would directly follow hers. I’d also invested in another plastic mac and disposable gloves. There’d been plenty of chances to memorize Callum’s number plate, so all I had to do was find it in the hotel car park. I’d also been practising opening locked cars – one of a range of skills I’d acquired in case of need – and though I’d only tried it (many times) on my own car, and once on Gary’s when he wasn’t around, I’d more or less perfected the art. So, as fully prepared as possible, I waited for the evening.

  Since the hotel where I was staying was within walking distance, I left my car in its slot and, at ten o’clock, set off for the Alhambra, making my way to the car park round the back.

  It was as well I’d left plenty of time, because I had to keep breaking off my search while a constant trickle of guests came to collect their cars. In all, it took over twenty minutes to locate Callum’s, not helped by the fact that it was at the far end. He must have been late getting here, and while it was good it was so far from the building, a major disadvantage was the lamp directly overhead. When the coast was clear, I’d have to immobilize it, and I anxiously checked for security cameras. There was one a few yards to my left, and another further down on the right, but fortunately the car itself was in a blind spot. My luck was holding.